


When Evil Rears its Head

by amporasbitch



Category: Markiplier (RPF), Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Animal Death, Blood, Body Horror, Crying, Expect some Moments, F/M, Figment Lore, Gen, Gore, Gun Violence, Have...fun?, Heavy Angst, I'm a fluff-loving sonofabitch at heart so, M/M, Mind Control, Most of the ships are endgame but like, Murder, Peevils is the Absolute Worst Person, Possession, So am I for writing this, Suffering, i guess, so much murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amporasbitch/pseuds/amporasbitch
Summary: When Peevils comes into being, she realizes that she wants two things: One, the adoration and attention of millions. Two, the destruction and death of anyone who stands in her way, and even the ones who don't. She may be new, but she's sneaky, and after she strikes, nothing will ever be the same.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm pretty excited about this. I love writing this and I'm so happy to be sharing it. It's not even close to done yet, and frankly I have no idea how long it's going to be. This is the Big One, boys.
> 
> Fair warning that this first chapter is basically just exposition. Very descriptive and flowery exposition. That's why it's called "Prologue." But, it's kinda necessary for the rest of the story to make sense. I wanted to get right to the action instead of writing an entire OTHER fic just to set up backstory. Apologies, but there it is. Please bear with me. I promise there's some good stuff in here.

She appears gradually, her form pulses in and out with creation. There are so many different versions of her, and her body shifts and transforms with them all. Time passes, and her skin eventually settles on a greenish tint, her eyes blacken. Her build, her face, and her hair change to resemble the one she was made from, her original. She is a figment of one Amy Nelson, her name is Peevils, and she was created not by Amy, but by her adoring fans. This is all Peevils knows when she materializes, her body becoming solid with belief. She appears just outside Amy’s home, and feels drawn to her, like a planet to a sun. Because there’s one thing Peevils doesn’t know, and that’s what she was made for, what she wants from this life. She feels that only her original, the one from whom she was based off, can help her find her purpose. So she knocks on Amy’s door that night, and Amy is beyond surprised to see her.

Still, the young woman accepts her immediately. She’s astonished that she has enough fans for a figment to come about in the first place. Peevils quickly begins to understand what she wants as she looks at Amy, a girl who has so much in the palm of her hand that she won’t release, a trump card she won’t use. Having been made by attention and admiration, this is what Peevils craves. Here Amy has the heart of one Mark Fischbach, such a cult of personality that he has numerous figments, all sustained and strong. A man who, in turn, has the hearts of seventeen million people in his fist, seventeen million people that could love Amy just as much if she so much as batted her eyes at Mark. Of course, Amy is too kind to ever think of using her boyfriend for fame. It’s a waste, Peevils thinks. Why not use one’s connections? Mark would be happy to do it. Peevils doesn’t attempt to mention it, though. She knows what Amy would say, and she prefers to keep her motivations secret as she plots.

Peevils may be a figment, but she is also an alien, and the green in her skin betrays her as such. It makes sense, she realizes, seeing Amy’s fascination with them. Peevils believes it is this part of her that makes her logical and calculated. She is deft at observing, watching, understanding. To look at someone is to know them. To hear them speak is to know how to speak back. To watch them go about their lives, to see them interact with others, to catch them in a private moment and observe from the shadows is to know how to break them.

This is how she discovers that her motivation is twofold. Yes, she wants the power and magnitude of attention, but she also longs for destruction. This is what she is built for. This is one advantage of being created by so many, and having no true shape, only a nebulous form: She has many abilities, many strengths. Granted, her skill and power is distributed among these skills, like the proverbial jack of all trades, master of none. But she is confident in her abilities, so long as she keeps them a surprise until the time is right (and how _infuriating_ it is, to have to keep those impulses in check, to have to reign in her desire for bringing blood and death and fear).

There are still other advantages to being created from many instead of just one, she finds out. It is Googleplier, one of Mark’s many figments, who tells her what it means to have been made by many minds. A figment, or ego, as Mark’s figments have taken to calling themselves, is much stronger than a normal human, and much more impervious to injury and death. But a figment created by one person is still vulnerable. Should their creator die, they may yet live, but only for as long as the attention lasts. Such a thing is difficult to maintain without one’s original to feed into them. A figment can certainly be killed, but even this they can come back from, so long as their creator wishes it. Granted, with only one creator, this process is taxing, and death is still death, painful as it would be if it were permanent. Not to mention that if the creator themself is the one who kills the figment, then that figment will, most likely, be lost forever. Peevils sorts out this information, and determines something crucial: She, having hundreds, possibly thousands of creators, is nearly impossible to kill, permanently or no. She takes this piece of information and runs with it, molding something into place, combining it with something else she comes to know.

To gain Mark’s power in viewership, she must gain control of him. Peevils could control Amy, but that would only go so far, especially if Mark suspected something was amiss. Which he certainly would, given how well he knows her. Not to mention the other figments, the egos, who all care about Amy in their own ways. Well, all except one, and this is where Peevils’s plan truly falls into place.

Darkiplier is a curious creature. Proud, angry, striding around the halls of Ego, Inc. as though he owns the place. And perhaps he does. He is the oldest ego, and the most powerful. He acts the part, always in a suit, his slinky black aura always stirring up the air around him. The show of power strikes Peevils as terribly obnoxious and unnecessary, as the other egos already respect and fear his strength. She, however, is not afraid of Dark, nor does she respect him. Not when he goes about flaunting his power like that, showing all his cards before the game has even begun. If Amy and Mark are two pretty planets revolving dreamily around each other, Peevils and Dark are like two black holes trying to devour each other. It’s only natural, Peevils thinks, that her and Dark’s hatred runs as hot and strong as Mark and Amy’s love. She despises him and his pretentious airs, the way he thinks he can get away with manipulating anyone when he’s so transparent with his motives and means. But on some level, she appreciates his flair for the dramatic (even if he, unlike her, does not know when to keep it concealed). More importantly, she is forced to admit that there is no other ego like him, and no other figment like him aside from her. He, too, was created by the will of thousands, yet his form was reshaped and refined by his original, shortening his array of powers but amplifying their strength. He’s as invulnerable as Peevils, and what’s more, he has similar goals: He also wants what Mark has, and everything he’s done, everything the other egos fear him for, he has done in pursuit of gaining it. Loath as Peevils is to admit it, she knows that she needs him on her side for her plans to succeed. That, or she needs him willing to stay out of her way, but she doesn’t put much stock in that option happening.

Perhaps Dark may be more willing to cooperate with her once Peevils shows him her true colors. She doesn’t want to betray her true feelings or intentions, so she’s made a character for herself, for the others to believe in. She doesn’t play innocent, though; between her black eyes and her own name, “Peevils,” no one would trust her if she pretended to have good intentions. Instead, she plays the part of a trickster. She’s prickly and rude, sharp-witted and silly. She pranks the others relentlessly, finding out just how much they can take and giving them a little bit less. She occasionally shows reluctant kindness or concern for others, like there is a compassionate part of her that has yet to be unlocked. It’s not even close to the havoc she longs to create, but it’s something, and it keeps her destructive impulses at bay. The others compare her to a different figment, Antispeticeye, call her a less dangerous and more light-hearted version of he (which makes her laugh, because from what she’s seen of Anti, he’s more like her than any one of Mark’s figments. All the power and dramatic flair of Dark, with none of the self-righteous pride. He may be much more reckless than Peevils tries to be, but he certainly isn’t boring. He feeds off chaos and death, and his only goal is to have fun while doing it. Really, he’s just her type. However, she feels he’s more likely to steal her idea and enact it first than cooperate with her on it, so she’ll leave him out of her schemes, at least for now). Peevils has the others convinced that she’s mostly benign, only an annoyance, so she wonders if the calculating and bloodthirsty parts of her might warm Dark up to her, at least a little. She knows full well that it’s better for the person one hates to like them than hate them back, and she hopes to win Dark over, or at least make him indifferent to her.

She works out the details of her plan, bit by bit, and collects information about the other figments like a dragon hoarding coins. It’s easy to do, especially after a room is made for her on the second floor of Ego Inc. She roams the halls, watching, listening, conversing. She may not be a Google, but her memory is as sharp as her powers of observation, and she stores every important detail away in her mind for further use.

Speaking of the Googles, they’re quite helpful to her when she is new, answering her various questions about the egos and about the nature of figments in general. There’s four of them, but she often goes to Google Blue, or just Google. He’s the oldest of the bunch, cynical and resigned to the craziness that living in Ego Inc. brings. Despite it being his primary objective, he seems to hate answering questions, which is why Peevils goes to him the most (she knows that as long as she does not say “Okay, Google,” she is not going too far). Google Red, called Chrome, has a much shorter fuse. As sarcastic as Google but hotter-tempered, Peevils need only stand a foot too close behind his shoulder to get him angry. Despite being identical to the other three androids, his movements are tighter, and Peevils senses the volatility and violence beneath his synthetic skin, as though his secondary objective is already activated and he’s trying to suppress it. Peevils has never seen him smile, and she wonders if he even likes any of the egos, aside from the other Googles, at all. She briefly considers using him for her plan, but ultimately decides that his rage would make him a poor partner-in-crime. Google Green, or Plus, is more subdued, perhaps the most subdued of them all. Softer-hearted but analytical to a fault, the kind of person who gets so caught up in details that he misses what’s right in front of him. Peevils doesn’t speak to him much at first; his personality is such that he’ll willingly answer any question, no matter how asinine or invasive. But later on, that makes him the perfect person to go to for the fine details he’s so good at seeing, the intricacies of relationships and past events that Peevils has not been around to witness. Google Yellow, or Oliver, is perhaps the strangest. More humanlike than the rest of them, sweet and smiling and as hyper as a child, but as smart as one would expect of a sentient android. Peevils can tell just from watching him how deeply he cares about not just the other Googles, but many of the other egos, as well. Peevils marks that there are certain egos he gets along with much better than others.

Bingiplier and MarkBop are two such egos. When not around Oliver, they are more often around each other. Peevils doesn’t much bother with them. They have practically no powers and their personalities are painfully transparent, with Bing charging into stupid ideas with overcompensating swagger and Bop nervously running behind. Bing is an idiot, plain and simple. Peevils watches him fail the same skateboarding trick five times over and insist he’s fine, even with scrapes on his knees and a bump on his head (because, as he says, “Helmets are for squares, dude.”). Bop watches, too, hands working together fretfully. When he gets particularly anxious, he speaks in Simlish, a strange gibberish language that only Bing and the Googles, with their language settings, are capable of understanding. Watching the two together, Peevils can see why they’re friends. Just being exposed to Bing’s self-assurance makes Bop relax some, and Bing seems to enjoy the excuse to take it easy and not try so hard that Bop provides. New as they both are, they help each other, and Peevils suspects their relationship runs deeper than either is willing to admit. One day when it’s raining too hard to skateboard, Bop and Bing hole up somewhere in the building, and Peevils has no clue where they went. She goes to Oliver for answers on what’s happening. Oliver tells her that they go there often, and that while they’ve all heard Bop’s music in some way or another, and that they’ve all seen him perform many times, Bing’s the only ego who Bop lets into his studio. He supposes that they’re in that sound-proof room hanging out together.

As often as though two are together and as close as they seem, Peevils finds that they have nothing on the Jims. Newscaster Jim and Weatherman Jim are practically attached at the hip. Peevils has, not once, ever seen them apart. Despite the fact that every ego has the same body, they somehow manage to be even more identical than the Googles. They act like twins, too; finishing each other’s sentences and seeming to sense when their counterpart is uncomfortable or upset without him having to say a word. Their powers are minimal, but they do exist; News Jim can predict the future, but only the most newsworthy and closest events in the most immediate moments. Weather Jim can predict the area’s weather day by day, as well as sensing most weather disasters as they happen, no matter where they’re happening. Both of them are high-strung; not like MarkBop’s quiet wrung-out anxiety, but more tittering and energetic in their nervousness. Peevils supposes that it’s their abilities that cause this. News Jim will jolt as he sees a double homicide or six-car pile-up in his mind’s eye, and Weather Jim will whimper as he feels a hurricane or tornado bear down halfway across the world. News Jim seems to be the calmer of the pair, if not by much. In the few months he’s been alive, he’s already begun to get used to the horrors of man, the endless tragedies that humans can’t stop creating or putting front-and-center on the morning news broadcast. The weather, on the other hand, may be predictable, but every storm or avalanche or flood is different, and Weather Jim is rocked by each one. In any case, Peevils expects no trouble from either of them.

Peevils finds herself grouping Ed Edgar, Silver Shepard, and King of the Squirrels in her mind. There’s not much reason for it, but perhaps it’s because they’re the egos she shares the building’s second floor with. Not to mention that they round out the group of more harmless and incompetent egos. Ed Edgar is loud and ignorant, very much the stereotypical redneck his appearance betrays him as. Silver Shepard claims to be a hero, and is as arrogant as one, but is too cowardly and clumsy to defeat even the most inept villain. King of the Squirrels is, in a word, bizarre. Somehow he looks younger than the rest, not growing up with the other egos, or with Mark. He’s personable enough, but spends more time speaking to the squirrels that follow him around and clamber across his shoulders than to the other egos. He particularly avoids Peevils, claiming that she makes the squirrels nervous. Luckily, even though King is capable of communicating with his subjects, he can’t understand much beyond basic statements and requests from them. The squirrels may be right about her, but Peevils knows they won’t tell King of her plans, if they’re intelligent enough to figure them out. She has a similar amount of concern about Ed and Silver, with Ed oblivious to everything that doesn’t have to do with him, and Silver too busy making a nemesis out of his own reflection.

Yandereplier, however, is a bit disconcerting. Though he has no supernatural abilities, he operates under a different logic than the rest, having been born of a world unlike the ordinary earth. He’s calculating and aloof, but impulsive and hot-blooded. Peevils can’t help but see a bit of herself in him. She can’t help but feel that if her form had shifted a little bit differently at her inception, if her brainwaves had flowed a different way, she would be just like him; intelligent and immature, powerful and reckless. Of course, she can’t imagine ever liking Darkiplier as much as Yandere does. Google tells her that Yandere claimed Dark as his “senpai” mere days after he first met the other ego. Peevils supposes she understands; Yandere’s barely-hidden potential for evil no doubt responds to the evil Dark’s already done, and the evil that he swims in still. Yandere is relentless in his pursuit of Dark. It takes Peevils a while to notice, but she eventually she realizes that almost wherever Dark is, Yandere is somewhere in the background, hidden and watching. Not the same way Peevils watches, looking for weak spots and informational tidbits, but watching for the pleasure of it. Just being in the same room as Dark seems to excite the younger ego. Dark is as pleased as anyone would be to have an admirer willing to do anything and everything to impress them. He often has Yandere help him with tasks or errands he doesn’t wish to bother with himself. When Peevils teases that Dark might actually like Yandere a little bit for all the time he spends with him, Dark shrugs and says, “He’s convenient, that’s all.” But Peevils marks the way his voice lowers, as though he knows Yandere is somewhere in the room and doesn’t want him to hear. Either way, whether Peevils has to worry about Yandere is more dependent on whether she has to worry about Dark. Yandere would strike down anyone in Peevils’s way if Dark asked it of him, and would just as easily move to strike her down as well if Dark changed his mind. Yandere might give Peevils some trouble in a fight, but she doubts he’s strong enough to take her.

Bim might be a more of a concern, Peevils thinks. He’s as bright as bubbly as Oliver, but more charismatic. He’s sweet enough to be best of friends with the android (and to long for more, as Peevils can clearly see in the way he looks at him), but sharp enough to work with Wilford Warfstache, easily the hardest ego to manage. He also has some power that may prove troublesome if he figures out how to use it before Peevils acts. She hears from Plus about how he killed once, shredding two people into meat. He’s taken great pains not to hurt anyone else again, but his power is still there.

Peevils was in the room when Antisepticeye managed to swim through the building’s mainframe and glitch his way into the internal systems of Chrome, who was charging at the time. Anti’s high-pitched cackling laugh echoed out of Chrome’s mouth as he moved the android from the inside, twisting limbs the wrong way and lunging at anyone who tried to come close. This was Peevils’s introduction to the figment, and the moment she realized she liked his style. Though it was easy to do, she had to feign concern as Chrome thrashed, occasionally gaining enough clarity to scream in agony. The other Googles were at a loss for how to deal with it, knowing how easily Anti could glitch into them and start the torment anew. Bim eventually walked past the room on the way to something, and stopped and gaped at the scene before him. It was Oliver who’d begged for his help, tears pouring from his eyes at the anguish of his brother. This is what prompted Bim to act. With some effort, he yanked Anti out of Chrome’s systems, but his poor control, Oliver’s frantic tears, and the panic of Google and Plus took half of Chrome’s software with him. Had Peevils not already known that figments could survive death, she would’ve found out as a week passed, with all three Googles working around the clock to fix Chrome, and Bim apologizing all the while. When Chrome finally powered back on, he had to be restrained from strangling Bim until Google slapped him upside the head and reminded him that Bim had freed him from Anti in the first place.

Bim’s power, Peevils believes, is broad but simple: Combination and separation. To combine a human into a mash of themself and to separate two people from each other’s minds are two sides of one coin. Peevils realizes that he might be the only ego who could truly stop her, but she also realizes how bad his control of his ability is. The way his powers are now, he’d only hasten the results of her plan instead of preventing them. Peevils tucks away the knowledge of Bim’s ability in her mind, but sees no need to keep it at the forefront.

Dr. Iplier also has intriguing abilities, even if they are useless to combat Peevils. She finds that he can see anyone’s time of death, and can sense when a person is too far gone for that time to be changed. Notwithstanding his extensive medical knowledge, of course. He’s no-nonsense but sharp-witted, like if Google had more humor in him. He’s perhaps the most normal of the egos, not so giddy as Bim and Oliver and not unstable like Chrome and Wilford. There’s a warm streak to him, a compassionate side that comes out as he treats patients—and when he interacts with the Host. Private though the two are, Peevils is stealthy, and quickly figures out how deep their relationship runs. She notes the way Dr. Iplier cleans the Host’s empty eye sockets and replaces his bandages, using much more than ordinary doctor’s gentleness. She hears the way his voice softens and lowers when he talks to the blind man, and she sees the shamelessly loving way he stares at him, despite (or perhaps due to) knowing the Host can’t see it. Peevils knows she won’t have to worry about Dr. Iplier stopping her plans, but she grins to think of how he’ll react as the ball starts rolling.

The Host may not be the strangest ego, but he certainly has his quirks. Peevils watches the old videos, sees him as the unstable and egotistical Author. Were he still that man, Peevils might have been concerned about him stopping her. But he’s become subdued since the loss of his eyes. His narrative power still exists, he’s still retained his ability to change and shape the future. But he’s more judicious with it now, and less quick to anger. Peevils does not know what happened to his eyes (it’s the one thing that even Plus will not tell her), but she can guess at it by the way Host flinches in Darkiplier’s presence and the terse way he speaks to him, body wound like a mouse trap. With all the time Host spends in his library, Dr. Iplier and Wilford of all people are the only ones he seems to fully trust. Peevils supposes that the Author was not unlike Wilford, but find it intriguing that the friendship lives on. As long as she does not give the Host enough time to narrate a solution, however, Peevils is confident he will not be able to stop her.

Wilford Warfstache is a different beast altogether. Unhinged, manic, overconfident, operating under a logic that no one else can understand. Somehow captivating and charismatic in his insanity, with a ridiculous wit that disguises power strong enough to match that of Darkiplier. Peevils finds him the most interesting of all the egos, and certainly one of the harder ones to figure out. She does figures him out before long, though. She sees how his worldview twists and molds to benefit himself, how even his strange logic is consistent in whatever way it needs to be to put him on top or in the right. The people he kills? Probably want it, or at least deserve it. If there’s any self-awareness in Wilford, a part of him that recognizes his actions for what they are, Peevils cannot see it. He relishes the kill but is bored by the chase, preferring to do as much as he can as fast as possible. Speedy and sharp, not angry, just bloodhungry. His powers are seemingly random: Creating various items from air, teleporting wherever he wishes to go (not just where he's already been, as is Dark’s limitation), maintaining a strange void somewhere far from the world. Not oppressive and cold like Peevils has heard Dark’s to be, but bright and pink and sickeningly sweet, a disorienting sugar high dimension. He might be the biggest challenge to overcome out of all the egos, always ready for any conflict with the power to back it up. Peevils will have to fight like him; quick and decisive, going for the kill above all else. Not that this is very different from how Peevils wants to fight anyway. As many similarities with herself as she sees in Yandere, Wilford is the one who truly strikes her as a common soul. Her fabricated personality interests him just as much as his own true one interests hers. Though he isn’t so thoughtful and plotting as she, he’s just as sharp and just as dangerous. Truly, he is the most fascinating ego to interact with.

It's almost too bad she’s going to kill him.

She goes over her plan again in her mind. It’s late at night, and tomorrow, she will take her plan to Dark. If Dark agrees to it, she’ll get started right away. If not, well, no sense in giving him time to stop her. Whatever happens, her plot may as well already be in motion. Her plan may not be foolproof (from what she knows of the egos, no plan could be), but she’s confident in her ability to make it work. By the time it all ends, she will have what she craves.

Power. Control. Death. Destruction. The adoration of millions, blood in her hands. It’s so close she can feel it dancing along her skin, feel it vibrating in the backs of her eyes.

All she has to do is begin.


	2. Takeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The universe runs on the principle that one who can exert the most evil on other creatures runs the show.”  
> ― Bangambiki Habyarimana, Pearls Of Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S h o o t, this was totally meant to go up earlier. But I ended up doing something with my grandparents that took a lot longer than I thought it would. Now, things really get started!

Peevils is not a late sleeper, but she wakes up earlier than usual, excited for what the day will bring. She knows that this early, most of the egos are still asleep. But she also knows that Dark is awake now, and that’s all that matters. She leaves her room and heads for Dark’s office, at the topmost floor. She takes the elevator, and thinks over her approach as she watches the needle climb.

Once she reveals her deception, Dark will no doubt become more aware of any manipulation she tries to use. Dark’s powers outstrip her own, so she knows that she cannot use hers to manipulate him, at least not directly. She has no aura, so slippery black thing wrapped around her shoulders and biting at the air like Dark does. All she has are words. But she knows better than to underestimate words, and judging by the state of the Host, so does Dark. But the Host has to be direct with his vocal manipulation, whereas Peevils can afford to keep her motives in shadow. She knows Dark well enough by now to know the right things to say to intrigue him and get him on her side, and if all else fails, she has a final trick up her sleeve: Her alien language.

Peevils _is_ an alien, after all, and although she is accustomed to speaking English, her species has a language of its own. It’s quiet, hissing, with sharp vowels and wide-open consonants, illogical grammar and inconsistent inflections. Just the sound of it is painful to humans, and to humanlike figments. Even more potent are the words and sentences without direct translations, the ones that are more like spells and commands than simple phrases. These fragments are meant to be spoken quietly; to say them too loudly can make even the speaker’s ears hurt. Peevils knows how to say them under her breath in such a way that even the listener is unaware that they’ve heard it, unsure of where their sudden headache has come from.

She tested it out once, while speaking with the Jims. News Jim was a foot or so away working on his script for that evening’s news, while Weather Jim was alongside Peevils, showing her how his doppler weather radar map worked. She feigned interest for several minutes until boredom set in. Tired of the silly pranks she’d resorted to pulling to hide her true evil, she let the words slip out in an exhale, “ _Crexliq trel_ ,” so low they rumbled in her mouth. Weather Jim’s eyes had gone huge, his head snapped down towards his chest, and his hands had begun to shake before they moved to tangle in his hair.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” Peevils had asked, feigning surprise and a measure of concern.

“I…I don’t…” Weather Jim had stuttered, as if the simple act of speaking hurt him with Peevils’s words in his head. He groaned in fear and agony, stumbled on his own feet.

News Jim noticed what was happening in time to rush over and grab Weather Jim’s shoulders, keeping him from falling.

“Jim, hey, are you okay? Did you get a vision?” He asked, but got no response other than a quick head shake, and another groan. He’d looked at Peevils then. “Sorry, but I have to…yeah.”

Peevils had accepted the dismissal without complaint, but peeked over her shoulder as she left to watch News Jim help Weather Jim away, the arm thrown around his shoulder looking like the only thing keeping him from collapsing under his own weight. She didn’t see Weather Jim for three days after, and neither did the other egos aside from News Jim. When she did see him again, he’d apologized to Peevils for the outburst interrupting their conversation, none the wiser about the outburst’s cause. Indeed, he had no idea what had happened, and as far as Peevils knows, he still has not found out.

As useful as her alien words are, there’s a limit to their power beyond causing pain. But there _are_ words of persuasion, words to make someone stop or keep going, words to draw attention or send it away. These words are difficult to wield, so Peevils doesn’t intend to use them right from the get-go. She’ll use English first, use the words she knows Dark will respond to, and see if it’s enough. For all the time she’s spent on developing her scheme, she’s very flexible.

When the elevator stops, she steps out and walks down the hall to Dark’s office. When she gets to the door, she doesn’t have to knock to know that Dark is there; she can feel his aura through the barrier, shifting softly. He’s not in a bad mood, at least, Peevils can tell. So she knocks instead of barging in as is her usual wont, hoping to keep his mood pleasant for as long as possible. She hears him sigh.

“Who is it and what could you possibly want?” Well, so much for preserving his good mood.

“It’s Peevils,” she answers, “I have something I wanted to…discuss with you.”

The pause is deliberate, and it has the desired effect, as Peevils hears Dark get up and walk to the door, and in the next moment she’s looking the man in the eyes.

“What did you want to discuss?” he asks. There’s a spark of interest in his eyes, but it’s dim and hard to see. He’s trying to figure out if Peevils really has something to say or if she’s just blowing smoke, and if what she has to say is worth putting up with her.

“Just a little idea I’ve come up with,” Peevils drawls casually, turning her head from Dark’s gaze to pick at her nails, “Something that concerns you as much as it does me, something we could both benefit from.” Her eyes dart towards Dark’s, the rest of her remains still. “It’d be better discussed behind closed doors.”

She’s laying it on a little thick, perhaps, but she relishes the opportunity to be dramatic. Unlike Dark, she knows how to tell whether a situation calls for cheese or subtlety. And dealing with Dark calls for as much schmaltz as she can muster, and she has quite a bit to go around. Dark, for his part, takes the bait somewhat reluctantly, sighing again before stepping aside to invite her into his office. She walks in and hears Dark shut the door behind her.

She takes a seat on a chair across from his desk (she wonders if it exists for situations like this and that alone, or if it’s more decorative. Either seems likely). Dark sits back in the chair behind his desk, folding his hands on the wood surface.

“Well,” he says, “Tell me about this “idea” of yours.” He doesn’t expect much, Peevils can tell, and she grins.

“First,” she says, “I have to admit I’ve been a bit of a liar since I showed up here.” Dark’s eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t speak, so Peevils continues. She lets her cadence drop into her preferred subdued tone, not the loud and jumpy tenor she’s used before now. “I know I’ve acted like a silly little prankster, someone a bit mean but with a heart of gold deep down somewhere just dying to escape. But I’m afraid that’s not me at all.” She grins again, her eyes flash. “I am much worse.”

Dark’s brows furrow slightly. He seems unwilling to believe her, but unable to dispute the evidence in front of him, the new way Peevils is speaking and carrying herself. Now, Peevils knows, his suspicion is aroused. She has to tread carefully.

“I should believe you…why?” he asks, tone impassive.

“Do you know what I’m here for?” Peevils answers his question with her own. “Do you know what I exist for? You know your own purpose, and I’m sure you know everyone else’s purpose, but do you know mine? What do you suppose it is?”

“Hm.” Clearly, Dark had not thought about this. Why would he have? He disliked Peevils almost from the moment he met her, and Peevils felt the same for him. He hasn’t cared enough to find out what Peevils wants as a figment, and she hasn’t cared to tell him before now. But she knows exactly what Dark’s motivations are; he’s so obvious about his intentions, how could she not? Yet he’s so used to being the most knowledgeable person in the room, and Peevils hopes to use this arrogance to her advantage.

“I want attention, admiration,” she tells Dark, not willing to irk him by making him guess, “Something that my original doesn’t have enough of. Amy is a kind girl,” she sighs, “But that doesn’t help her any. Her channel is so small, and in order to grow it, I need a place to start.” She peers into Dark’s eyes, sees him beginning to understand. “Mark has all the fans I could ever need to sustain myself, and I’m sure he’d be willing to share if Amy said the word. But unfortunately, Amy never would. I need him to achieve my goals, but so do you. That’s why I’m here.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Dark growls, “Mark’s channel is _mine_.” But Peevils is prepared for his anger, and she raises her hands in mock surrender.

“Of course,” she says easily, “I did say “share,” didn’t I? Surely Mark’s subscribers are capable of following two channels at once. His fans already love Amy so dearly, I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Peevils puts her hands back down as her words sink in. “The one predicament I come back to every time is that Amy would never ask for such an arrangement, and even if I made her, Mark would see right through it. The other egos would too, and I’d just be out of luck. So I not only have to use Mark to get the attention I so need, but I have to keep the other egos from stopping me.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?” Dark asks. He’s intrigued, despite himself.

“Well, I have one other want as a figment aside from attention.” Peevils flashes an evil smile. “Destruction. Death. Chaos and blood.”

“You sound like Anti,” Dark growls, unamused and put out, like he expected more.

“I do, don’t I?” Peevils laughs. “But I can promise you that Anti doesn’t have half the foresight that I do. The fact that I’m in your office speaking to you about this at all proves it. My idea is, quite simply, that we work together.” She levels a stare at Dark. This is her moment of truth:

“I take control of Mark and force him to kill Wilford and the Host. Then, you kill Mark so he can’t bring them back. From then on, you can be Mark, and I can control Amy, and we can help our channels grow. You satisfy your need for control, I satisfy my need for attention and get to roll a few heads. With Host and Wilford gone, we won’t have to worry about anyone stopping us.”

Dark’s eyes flash, but not with glee. More like shock, some measure of worry, like he wants to accept but can’t. Peevils raises an eyebrow. She hadn’t expected this reaction. There’s a long pause as Dark reigns his expression back to normalcy.

“How exactly do you plan to make Mark kill Wilford and the Host in the first place?” he asks. “Even my aura can only do so much against him. And I can’t possess him unless he lets me in, and I’ve already tried to make him do that dozens of times. His will is more powerful than that of the average human.”

Peevils believes that there is more to Dark’s worry than that, but she decides not to push it, at least not yet.

“Easy,” she answers Dark, “I have abilities of my own, you know.”

“Like what?” Dark asks. Peevils stifles a laugh at his expression. He thinks she’s _bluffing_. Well, she was planning to just tell him what she could do, but perhaps she’ll just have to show him.

“Perhaps I could demonstrate?” she asks, tilting her head with an innocent smile. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

“Fine,” Dark growls.

Peevils snaps her fingers, but only for effect. She focuses on Dark’s mind, and makes sure her own is appropriately closed. She vanishes from her chair and reappears in Dark’s head, in his body. She can see _everything_. She can see every thought, every memory, feel his aura wrapped around her, feel the physical power coiled in his muscles beneath his suit. She already knows Dark can see little of her thoughts, having closed her mind off beforehand.

Still, he reacts immediately.

“ _What the—_ ” he gasps, then roars; “ _What the hell are you doing?? Get out!_ ”

“Man, I can see why you act so high and mighty all the time,” Peevils says, forgetting her decorum in her amusement. She stretches Dark’s arms in front of her. “You’re a lot stronger than I even thought.” She speaks from Dark’s vocal cords, in his voice. Any listener would hear a slight difference in pitch, Peevils’s only calling card. Dark, too, hears her speaking in that voice too much like his own, from his own mouth. Peevils can feel his fury, feel him vibrating within himself.

“ _I said GET OUT!_ ”

Abruptly, he kicks her out of his mind with force like a mental shove, and Peevils finds herself standing before him once more. She expected this, of course; Dark is too powerful to let someone else control him for long. Even with her out, he’s still enraged. His hands are fists at his sides, his face is set in a snarl. He trembles with anger. His form splits open, showing a shadow of himself twisting with rage, and a wave of static runs through the room. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, and even then he is still deadly furious.

“What was _that?_ ” he asks, voice dangerously deep.

“Possession,” Peevils says easily, “You know a thing or two about it, I’m sure.” She lets her eyes go soft, placating, and she smiles. “The only difference between us is that I don’t need permission to do it. I just figured you’d hate me even more than you do right now if I’d done it without asking. And just think,” she says, her own gleeful pride sneaking into her tone, “If I could possess someone as powerful as you, with you expecting something from me, and control you for a few seconds, imagine how long I could control Mark.” Her grin is sharp and manic, but she can’t help it. She still acutely remembers Dark’s power in her veins, and it invigorates her. “Imagine the kinds of things I could make him do. He’d be a rat in a cage, and he’d never escape unless I let him, or,” she calms her smile and looks into Dark’s eyes, “You kill him.”

With that obstacle addressed, Peevils hopes to see agreement in Dark’s features. But something nags at him still, and he says nothing. She sighs.

“Okay, what’s the real problem here?” she asks. “I figured you’d be happier about my plan by now. Tell me what has you so troubled.”

Dark stays silent for a moment, before sighing with reluctance.

“If you aren’t aware,” Dark says, voice curt, “I don’t wish to take over Mark’s channel just for myself. As infuriating as the other egos can be, I do what I do for them, whether they realize it or not.” He considers his own words. “I’m sure they do, deep down. Otherwise they would’ve tried to kill me already. And I would’ve killed them too, long ago, if I had felt they got in the way of my goals.”

“But they _do_ get in the way of your goals, don’t they?” Peevils asks, leaning forward in her seat. “They know in their hearts that you do what you do at least partially for their benefit, and how do they repay you? They don’t. They’re too attached to Mark, too consumed by their hatred of you to accept where you’re coming from. They’re ungrateful. If you take over Mark, Host and Wilford will stop you the moment they find out, no matter what you tell them. Besides, it’s not like you’re the one who has to kill them. There won’t be any blood on your hands, if that’s what you desire.” She pauses, waiting for Dark’s expression to change. It doesn’t, so she continues. “Look, Dark, I could easily have done my plan without telling you. But I want you on my team. I _need_ you on my team.” She flashes a conspiratorial grin. “You and I are not so different. Neither of us were created by our originals, or by one person’s imagination. We’re the product of thousands. Compared to the other egos, we are _untouchable_. We’re practically _immortal_. All they have is strength in numbers, but if we take down the most powerful players, they’ll _never_ be strong enough to stop us. And if you control Mark’s channel, you can give them the help they’ve always needed.” She looks around like she’s telling him something confidential. “There’s so many egos that are in danger of fading. They’re fine right now, sure. But what about the egos from MarkiplierTV? How long will their novelty keep them in the fans’ minds? What about poor Yandereplier?” Ah, there it is, that slight widening of the eyes, that pursing of the lips Peevils was waiting to see. It seems she was right about Dark’s feelings for Yandere all along. “Yan hasn’t gotten an appearance in almost a year. Can he be sustained by Mark just playing his game every once in a while? If you take over, you can make sure no one forgets the egos. You can prevent them all from fading. Mark doesn’t care about them like you do. Wilford and the Host are necessary casualties. This is for the greater good, not just for you and me, but for everyone.”

Her words have gotten through to Dark. He’s taking her seriously now, considering her plan seriously. But there’s something behind his eyes still, something that holds him back. Peevils can see it, and she already knows what it is. She saw it in his mind when she possessed him, she saw it in his memories. Dark may have come far since his early days, but he has not forgotten him. He has not forgotten the loneliness. He has not forgotten that time when he was new, when all he had was himself, then Wilford, then the Author. He has not forgotten the stress, the fear, the way he forced himself to be a protector. He has not forgotten how hard he fought to keep the three of them from fading. He has not forgotten what it was like to find new egos, to take them in, to keep them alive without Mark’s help. He has not forgotten where his power comes from. He has not forgotten why he so craves control, how he has had to keep in control his entire life to keep the others safe. No matter how jaded and evil he becomes, how much he often detests the other egos, Dark remembers his roots and has his own morals, and he doesn’t wish to forsake them.

And Peevils can see that he never will.

“Tempting though your offer is, I am not helping you.” Dark says coldly, raising a hand. His aura twists around, swivels towards Peevils. “I cannot let you do this.”

Peevils wishes it hadn’t come to this, but knowing what she does about Dark now, she supposes it was inevitable. Sure, she could modify her plan to leave out the murders of Wilford and the Host, maybe even Mark, and institute a bloodless takeover with Dark’s help. But where would be the fun in that? Luckily, she has one last trick up her sleeve.

“ _Varnik ag wisshel_ ,” Peevils breathes, low enough to keep the word for hurting her own mind, but loud enough for Dark to hear. He pauses sharply, his pupils constrict. But the reaction is minute and fleeting. He’s a tricky one, Peevils thinks. Time for something stronger.

“ _Yelkor pyanis oj haron,_ ” she says, a bit louder than before, and she feels a prickle between her eyes. But she gets the reaction she was looking for: Dark’s breath hitches, his raised hand drops to his side, his eyes glaze over. His aura shrinks, clinging closer to him. She steps closer to him until they’re nearly chest-to-chest. There’s only one thing left to do.

“ _Maruns rav ignet_ , you take orders from me now,” Peevils whispers into his ear. She hears him exhale, and when she steps away, she sees the hollowness in his eyes. She grins.

“Now,” she says, “You have a gun, don’t you? Give it to me; I’ll need a weapon when I’m in Mark’s body.” She doesn’t need to explain herself, but she does anyway for the fun of it.

Dark turns and mechanically walks to his desk, opening the top drawer. He takes out the revolver, walks back to Peevils, and places the weapon into her open hand.

“Perfect,” she says, mania touching her voice again. She has no need to hide it now, so she doesn’t try to. “Now, give me some advice. How should I go about killing Wilford and the Host? You know how they fight better than I do.”

“Kill the Host first,” Dark answers, voice flat, “Wilford will take longer and attract more attention. Don’t give the Host a chance to narrate, and don’t let Wilford know you’ve killed him. It’ll only make him fight more ruthlessly. Neither of them will want to hurt Mark, so use that to your advantage.”

“I figured as much,” Peevils says in reply to all the information, “But it’s good to know.” She thinks. Originally she was going to hitchhike to Mark’s home, perhaps steal someone’s car and drive most of the way there and back herself. But now that she has Dark under her thumb, she can be more efficient.

“When I say the word, teleport me to Mark’s house,” she begins, “And once we get there, be quiet and stay hidden. If he senses your presence I’ll lose my element of surprise.”

Dark nods. Peevils’s grin widens.

“Now,” she says.

For a moment, she and Dark are in, well, darkness. Peevils feels the cold of his void, the breathless inkiness of it. She can’t help the shudder that runs through her. A moment later, she’s in Mark’s living room. Dark slinks away behind a shadow, so quiet Peevils can barely even hear him breathing. She nods to him, knowing that this will keep him there until she returns. She can’t hear anything in the immediate area, so she walks around the apartment slowly, stepping gently. Finally, she can hear exclamations from behind a closed door, muffled by sound-proofing. She’s about to open the door when she hears a soft growling from behind her.

She turns to face Chica, Mark’s dog. Peevils sneers down at the animal. Chica never liked her, as though she had some sixth sense about the figment that looked like her owner’s loved one. But the dog had never shown such aggression to Peevils before. She lays a hand on the door. Chica barks. Peevils hears a questioning tone from within the room, and she curses under her breath at Chica. She has half a mind to shoot the creature, but decides it isn’t worth the trouble. She pulls away from the door, moving to the left side, hoping the opening of the door will conceal her.

In the next moment, the door swings open, and Peevils is forced to catch the doorknob with her hand to keep it from slamming into her. Mark steps out, and though Peevils can’t yet see him, she can hear him quite well.

“Hey Chica-Bica, what’s up?” Mark asks his dog, who is thankfully ignoring Peevils in favor of trotting in anxious circles around her owner. “Do you gotta go outside? Huh, pupper-snup?”

But Chica doesn’t stop circling, and begins to whine and whimper. Peevils uses the sound as a cover to slowly move from behind the door. All she has to do is get Mark in her sights, and she can take control.

“What’s the matter, girl?” Mark asks, confusion tinting his voice. Peevils hears him bend down to the floor to Chica, and knows that this is her chance. She steps out and sees Mark kneeling down, scratching Chica’s ears. Chica snaps her head towards Peevils, but it’s too late.

Peevils slips into Mark’s mind as easy as water, filling out his limbs. Peevils’s gun, unable to travel into Mark’s psyche, clatters to the ground. Unlike before, Peevils doesn’t bother to keep her mind closed off. She lets Mark see everything, just as she sees everything in him. All the better for him to fear her, after all.

“ _What the heck? What’s happening??_ ” Mark shouts in his own head as Peevils maneuvers his body to the gun she dropped before. “ _Who are you? What are you doing with that gun?? What—_ ”

“ _If you would be silent for a moment,_ ” Peevils says smoothly, her voice echoing in Mark’s brainspace, “ _You’d have enough awareness to find the answers to those questions yourself._ ”

Mark gasps, recognizing the voice responding to his own. But he takes Peevils’s advice, going quiet as he sifts through Peevils’s thoughts, memories, plans. The plans she told to Dark, and the plans she kept secret. Who she really is, what she really wants. What kind of figment she is, what kind of figment the egos are, how vulnerable they are to her. What she’s done to Dark, what abilities she has yet to show. He reels from the informational overload. As Peevils finishes checking over the gun, assuring it wasn’t damaged in its drop, Mark finally speaks again, voice wavering with fear.

“ _You…you won’t get away with this._ ” He takes a shaky breath in. “ _You can’t get away with this. The others will see right through you, and they’ll stop you._ ”

“ _Are you sure about that?_ ” Peevils laughs, tucking the gun in the waistband of Mark’s jeans. “ _You already know what I’ve done to Dark. Imagine what I’ll do to the rest._ ” She pauses. “ _Imagine what YOU will do to the rest._ ”

Peevils feels Mark’s surge of anger, hears him screaming at her from within himself, desperately trying to break free. Dark was right, Mark _does_ have quite a strong will. Any other human would’ve given themself over to despair upon seeing the atrocities Peevils plans to commit. But Mark’s will is not nearly enough to knock her away or make her loosen her hold on his mind. She walks back to Dark, ignoring Chica, who now cowers under a table.

Mark gasps again when he sees the emptiness in Dark’s expression, like a slate wiped clean. It chills him to see the most powerful of his figments reduced to such a state, and Peevils can feel his wave of renewed fear. She relishes it. This, truly, is what she was _made_ for.

“We’re going back to Ego Inc.,” Peevils says to Dark, holding up a hand to stop him as he prepares to teleport, “But I want you to put us outside it, at the front door. That way it’s less likely for someone to see us. No doubt they’d suspect something if they saw you teleporting Mark around. Once we get there, you can teleport back to your office. Give me…” Peevils thinks. “…thirty minutes. Stay in your office for thirty minutes, and then meet me in Wilford’s studio. Prepare to help me kill him if he’s still alive when you get there.”

Mark and Peevils both see a flicker in Dark’s eyes, a shard of something coming through. Mark feels a burst of hope that Dark might break free of Peevils’s control. But the flicker disappears as quickly as it came, and there’s a moment of deep darkness, and then Peevils and Dark are standing outside Ego Inc. Dark nods to Peevils and teleports away in a cloud of black smoke, leaving Mark to face Peevils alone. Peevils rolls her (Mark’s) shoulders.

“Let’s do this.” She grins, sharp and evil, twisting Mark’s face into something like her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lawful Evil Dark is my new aesthetic, tbh
> 
> Also, I got the idea to give Peevils her own alien language to manipulate people with from the book "Lexicon" by Max Berry. It's a thriller about a subset of people who can use words the same way Peevils does. I even looked to the made-up words in the book to help come up with Peevils's (none of them are matches, though, I'm no copy-cat!). If you're into language and words like I am or just enjoy a good thriller, definitely check out "Lexicon"! #notsponsored
> 
> The next chapter probably won't be up until Thursday, since I have work most of the day tomorrow. Hope you guys don't mind waiting!


	3. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First is the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might've guessed by the chapter title, this is the part where the murder begins. That's your only warning.
> 
> (Speaking of murder, if Antisepticeye could chill out for like five seconds, I'd really appreciate it. I'm still not over that video.)
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't clear before, when I'm referring to "Peevils," I'm talking about "Peevils in Mark's body," since she's controlling him. So if Peevils does something, that means Mark's body is doing that something. I hope that's not too confusing. Since Mark himself sometimes speaks up from inside his own head like he did last chapter, I thought this was the best way to keep him and Peevils straight. Anyway, happy(?) reading!

Mark starts up a racket again in his brain, trying to scream and claw and punch his way out of the inky blackness of his own subconscious. But Peevils is stuck to his mind like glue, and no amount of struggle can force her out. She pilots his body towards the Host’s library. She expects him to be awake and writing there by now, and even if he isn’t, his bedroom is attached to the library anyway. The library is on the ground floor of the building, albeit on the other side of the building from the entrance, so Peevils doesn’t have long to walk before she’s facing the room’s large oak doors.

“ _He’s tougher than he looks, you know,_ ” Mark mutters, “ _He’ll figure you out right away._ ”

“ _We’ll see,_ ” Peevils answers.

She opens the doors to the library and walks inside, making her body language easy and bright, attentive, curious. Sure enough, she can hear the Host typing away at his braille typewriter in the center of the room. As she walks through the library, she decides it would be nice if it weren’t so boring. Despite it being a too-bright, sunny midmorning outside, the room is swathed in warm mood lighting, like a gentle sunset. There’s candles placed around the room, some on decorative tables next to soft armchairs and couches, some on the ends of bookshelves. The shelves themselves are made of the same oak as the door and stretch to the ceiling, three times taller than Peevils’s current height. There must be a ladder or two tucked somewhere, but Peevils doesn’t bother to look for it. Instead, she moves through the aisles, looking around, keeping her body language light. The Host may be blind, but Peevils knows better than to underestimate him.

The man lifts his head as Peevils approaches without her having to say a word. He’s sporting his signature trench coat and eye bandages as he sits at his desk, stopping the tapping of his fingers on the typewriter to talk.

“The Host greets Mark, and wonders why he has come to the Host’s library. Perhaps to find another book for Amy to borrow?” The Host’s expression is pleasant, smile slightly teasing. Peevils scowls internally. Of all the annoying quirks to be found in the egos, the Host’s narration is, to Peevils, one of the worst.

“Good morning to you, too!” Peevils laughs with Mark’s voice, borrowing from every memory Mark has of interacting with the blind man. She walks closer to the Host’s desk, and spies his trusty baseball bat leaning along its side. “And no, I was actually looking for a good book for myself. I haven’t been able to read much with my schedule, but I want to get into it. I was hoping you could help me pick something out!”

The Host stiffens the moment he hears Mark (who he thinks is Mark) speak. There’s something off about his voice, something too high in pitch, something wrong with the way his words fall from his mouth and hang in the air. Something about his inflections, something hidden in his tone. The Host knows that something is amiss, and Peevils sees that he knows. She slowly, casually, closes the distance to the Host’s desk, brazenly leaning on it by the Host’s right side, next to the bat. No point in hiding anything now, she thinks.

“The Host wants to know what’s wrong with Mark,” the Host says, voice tight. It’s the same tightness Peevils hears in him when he speaks to Dark. Is _that_ what he thinks this is? She could laugh as his hand twitches towards his bat, wanting to grab it but not wanting to set Peevils off. Mark, meanwhile, feels hope within him again. If the Host figures it out, he can stop this with a sentence. He’s smart, he’s observant, all he has to do is notice…

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” Peevils answers the Host’s stated question with an innocent lilt to her voice. “Why do you ask?” She’s daring the Host to reveal his suspicions. She finds she’s enjoying this game.

“The Host would prefer if Mark stepped away from his desk.” The Host is now cold, curt. He turns his head away from Peevils. “The Host wonders if he is speaking to Mark at all.”

There it is. Optimism streaks through Mark as manic glee surges through Peevils. She decides it’s time to stop pretending, and pulls her revolver from her (Mark’s) waistband, leveling it at the Host’s temple. The Host feels the stirring in the air, and flinches. He’s been around Wilford long enough to know the sound of a gun being drawn. Mark’s hope is nearly swallowed by fear, but it remains still, thrumming at the back of Peevils’s awareness. It’s almost cute, Peevils has to admit.

“You’re a smart one, Hosty,” Peevils giggles, “But not smart enough.”

The Host’s head lowers, a gesture someone else might mistake as showing fear. Someone else wouldn’t hear the words the Host speaks, spilling from his mouth a mile a minute. But Peevils is too practiced in speaking under her breath not to hear someone else do the same.

“Nope,” she says, and fires.

The bullet punches through the Host’s temple. It breaks out through the other side. Blood sprays. Mark shrieks. The Host’s head falls forward and hits the desk with a thud. Blood continues to flow, puddling up under the Host’s head and dripping onto the floor. Mark’s scream dissolves into a sob.

“He’ll figure me out right away,” Peevils says to Mark, “Is what I recall you telling me earlier.”

“ _H-He’s not gone,_ ” Mark sobs, “ _I didn’t kill him, y-you did._ ”

“That’s not how it works, Markimoo,” Peevils replies as she tucks the gun back into her waistband. “Your hand held the gun, and your finger pulled the trigger. It doesn’t matter who held the reins.”

Mark shudders and continues to weep inside his subconscious as Peevils walks back to the library’s entrance to leave.

“ _If you’re this upset about the Host,_ ” Peevils says, keeping her words internal now that she’s left the library, “ _I can’t wait to see how you react when I kill Wilford._ ”

“ _You can’t kill Wilford._ ” As upset as he is, Mark’s voice is hard with defiant anger. “ _He’s insanely powerful, and he won’t be scared of you._ ”

“ _Maybe he should be,_ ” Peevils replies, letting a giggle slip from her lips as she heads upstairs to the third floor, where Wilford’s studio resides.

(Meanwhile, on the third floor but in the clinic, Dr. Iplier is gripping the front of his shirt. He has just felt sharp pain zig-zag up his chest, and he wonders if it’s a symptom of something. But the feeling vanishes as fast as it came, and nothing else about his health seems to be amiss. Dr. Iplier thinks he ought to run some tests on himself anyways, just to be safe.)

Mark runs through the expanse of his mind, searching for something. A barrier, a wall, a window, an end to the cage, a place he can pound on and break down. But no matter how far he runs, there’s nothing but black emptiness. Even the floor is transient, existing only when his legs are moving, but disappearing when he bends down to touch it. It is not like Dark’s void, at least; no rumbling, no whispering, no breathless wind or crushing cold. But this is but a small comfort. Inside Mark’s mind, all is lukewarm silence. The longer he spends there, the more he wonders if Dark’s void is truly worse.

Peevils, meanwhile, is in the elevator again, but not for long. It quickly takes her to the third floor, and she steps out to find Wilford’s studio. She wonders if Bim, who often works with Wilford, will be there already. That could be a problem, she thinks, but she always has tricks up her sleeve. Mark hears her thoughts and shivers.

“ _You can’t stop Wilford,_ ” Mark says, “ _He doesn’t hold back._ ”

“ _He can’t stop me either,_ ” Peevils replies, “ _Unless he kills you to force me out. Then poor Host will be gone forever, too._ ”

There’s a pause as Mark considers.

“ _At least that way…_ ” Mark says softly, “ _At least then no one else has to get hurt._ ”

“ _How noble._ ” Peevils chuckles through Mark’s throat. “ _Fortunately, Wilford isn’t going to kill you. I’m going to kill him first._ ”

Mark, it seems, has tired of telling Peevils how much better Wilford is than her, so he goes quiet. Grief is still heavy in his mind, but his emotions are running in too many directions to cry anymore.

Peevils gets to Wilford’s studio, and tests the door. It’s unlocked. Wilford, luckily for her, often forgets to lock the studio door. Peevils often invited herself in when she masqueraded as a merry prankster, but it eventually lost its effectiveness as Wilford grew to enjoy her mischievous spirit. She wonders how Wilford will react once he finds out he’s been wrong about her. She grins to herself as she closes the door behind her.

Despite him being deep within the studio, Peevils can hear Wilford from the entrance, loudly going over a script, voice lowering to a mutter when he finds something wrong with it, perhaps a grammar mistake or a sentence he wants to change. Scattered as Wilford is, he’s very thorough with his scripts, even if he hardly uses them. Peevils can’t hear anyone else in the room, and decides Wilford must be alone after all. She pauses a moment, knowing that her appearance, even as Mark, will be received differently than it was by the Host. From seeing Mark’s memories, she knows that he hardly ever comes into Wilford’s studio on his own whims, too aware of Wilford’s volatility to risk irritating him with interruptions. But she knows one thing Wilford will take being interrupted for: A video. So she decides that will be her ruse as she finally approaches Wilford, who sees her from the corner of his eyes and turns to her immediately. He frowns.

“How many goddamn times do I have to _tell_ you people,” Wilford mutters, casually pulling a knife out of thin air, “Not to _bother_ me when I’m working?” Peevils puts up her hands in surrender, but makes her brows furrow in confusion.

“You…people…?” she questions, before shaking her head as if clearing her thoughts. “Sorry, but I wanted to talk to you about something. You never hear me when I knock…”

“Whatever, whatever,” Wilford drawls, “What was _so_ important that you had to come _barging_ in uninvited?”

“Weeeeell,” Peevils says, letting a tiny grin grace her features, “I was just brainstorming what your next video could be—”

“Is that so?” Wilford’s eyes light up, and every trace of annoyance fades from his face. “What d’ya have in mind?”

“I could always come back later if you’re too busy,” Peevils teases, but walks towards Wilford amicably. Wilford waves the comment off.

“Don’t patronize me, Fish-back,” he says, not unkindly. He finds a chair and plops down on it backwards, arms crossed in front of the chair’s back. “Gimme the details.”

“Actually, it’s pretty elaborate,” Peevils explains, “The rest of the team is helping me work on it right now. If we went back to my place, I could show you the plans we’ve come up with instead of just parroting them.” Wilford blinks.

“Why didn’t ya just call me, then?” Wilford asks, confusion in his features.

“Because you shoot the phone every time it rings,” Peevils replies, “And Dark is getting sick of replacing it. I’d rather not give him another reason to hate me.” Wilford waves the answer to his question away as though it were inconsequential. Truly, Wilford is a funny one. Peevils might actually miss him a bit after this is over.

“Whatever, let’s just go,” he says breezily, raising a hand to send them teleporting to Mark’s apartment.

“Wait!” Peevils shouts, “I had to drive here. I’d rather not leave my car stuck here. I’ll drive us.”

“But car rides are boring,” Wilford grumbles.

“They’re relaxing,” Peevils insists, “Besides, you can people-watch. Don’t you like to people-watch?” Wilford considers, and then smiles.

“Good point, Fish-back,” Wilford says, getting up from his chair. He strides past him to leave. Peevils wonders if it’s his illogical, insanity-fueled mind that sometimes makes him so easygoing and flexible when he’s usually so stubborn, or if that’s his journalist side coming through, willing to do anything for a story and stick with it.

Either way, Peevils sees her chance. Lightning-quick, she pulls out her revolver and fires at the back of Wilford’s head. Mark yelps.

But she isn’t fast enough.

As the bullet leaves the gun, Wilford freezes mid-step and leans out of its way. It whizzes by his ear. He turns around to face Peevils, who doesn’t have time to put the gun down or disguise the very un-Marklike expression on her face.

“What the _fuck_ is this?” Wilford asks, voice low and dangerous.

He pulls out his own pistol as Peevils fires again. Wilford ducks under the bullet and fires back, aiming for the chest. Were Peevils not limited by Mark’s human body, she might have been able to dodge it completely. But the bullet lodges itself in her (his) left arm. Peevils hisses at the feeling. Even trapped inside himself, Mark too feels the bullet, and cries out in pain.

“Not so fast, Warfstache,” Peevils begins as Wilford prepares to fire again, “Do you understand what’s going on here?”

“You tried to kill me,” Wilford growls, “That’s what’s going on here.”

“Well, _Mark_ doesn’t want to kill you,” Peevils says, smiling, “Mark is trying very hard to force me out and stop me from killing you. But he can’t try very hard, though. He feels the bullet you put in his arm as clear as I do.” Realization dawns on Wilford as he finally hears the difference in pitch, and sees the way the person in front of him moves. It’s not quite the same as the person he’s thinking of, but there’s no one else it could be.

“Peevils?” he asks. Peevils giggles. Wilford blanches, but shakes his head and holds his gun tighter. “How do I know you aren’t a shapeshifter? Maybe you’re just _pretending_ to be Mark so I won’t shoot your sorry ass.”

“Good thinking!” Peevils laughs. “But no, that’s not it.”

“Prove it.” Wilford speaks through gritted teeth.

Peevils shrugs, seeing no harm in that. She sinks back in on herself, allowing Mark to fill the space where she stood. She holes up in Mark’s subconscious and watches. Wilford sees Mark’s body jolt, and suddenly, the person before him changes completely. Mark, finally back in his body, gasps, drops the gun in his hands, and pats his hands over his chest, his head, making sure this is real. His eyes widen with relief cut through with panic and pain. Wilford’s eyes practically bulge out of his head, and he lowers his weapon ever-so-slightly.

“Mark,” he says, voice quieter than Peevils has ever heard it. She forgets as easily as Wilford does how much respect the man has for his creator.

“Will!” Mark cries. “You have to stop her! Whatever you do, no matter what, you have to stop her! She has this horrible plan, she’s already—”

“ _That’s enough,_ ” Peevils says to Mark, pushing herself back to the forefront before Mark can finish his sentence. Mark’s cry of despair is quickly swallowed up by his own subconscious. His body shakes again, but this time it’s Peevils who stares back at Wilford as she picks up the gun Mark dropped.

“Is that proof enough for you?” Peevils cackles, throwing her head back in laughter. “If you kill this body, I just get kicked out of its brain. But Mark’s not a figment. If you take his body, his soul has nowhere to go.” She grins at Wilford with a mania to match his own. “You can’t touch me.”

“No one tells Wilford Warfstache what he can’t do,” Wilford growls, vibrating with rage. He charges at Peevils, barreling into her and sending the two of them tumbling. The two guns clatter across the floor in opposite directions.

Wilford socks Peevils in the jaw. Hot pain shoots up the side of her face. She grabs Wilford’s fist as he prepares to hit again and kicks her knee up into Wilford’s gut. He huffs out a wheeze, and Peevils punches up into his chin, forcing it back closed. The sound of cracking teeth pierces the air. Wilford roars in pain and anger and rips his hand out of Peevils’s grip, using it and his other hand to grab her throat and shove her head into the floor. Lightning dances up through the back of Peevils’s skull and behind her eyes. She tries to breathe in but can’t. She grabs at Wilford’s arms, digging her nails in, and tries to kick him off her. But he ignores her scratching, and he’s already moved forward to straddle Peevils’s chest so her legs can’t reach him. Even as she starts to suffocate, Peevils sees his plan. He aims to knock her out instead of kill her, incapacitate her until he can figure out how to get her out of Mark’s body. Mark, for his part, has felt every blow, and is now feeling what it’s like to suffocate. His choking gasps echo in Peevils’s mind. She wiggles her head around beneath Wilford, lurching her neck one way and the other, until the pressure lowers enough for her to speak.

“He can feel this,” she rasps, “He thinks he’s gonna die.”

“Well, he’s not,” Wilford mutters, leaning in closer and tightening his grip on Peevils’s throat, “I know Mark better than you, and I know he’ll thank me for this once I get you out of his head.”

It was worth a shot. Peevils tilts her neck around again, much harder than before, pushing the fingers of Wilford’s right hand into the floor, and pulling him even closer to her. Wilford hisses in pain, and Peevils uses the distraction to shoot her hands up, pushing her thumbs into Wilford’s eyes.

Wilford yells in pain and rears back. He releases Peevils’s neck to yank her hands away from his face. Peevils allows it and pushes Wilford down. She punches him across the face. Once. Twice. Three times.

Suddenly, the air changes. Pink floods her vision. The studio falls away and she’s surrounded by fluffy clouds, kaleidoscope pastels dancing through the air. She knows immediately where she is. She can’t help but pause at the sudden change in scenery, and what it means for the fight.

Wilford looks up at her, glaring daggers. There’s blood on his lips and trickling from his nose. His eyes are red and raw and inflamed, with the left one sporting a jagged scratch across it.

“I’m done fighting fair,” he snarls, pushing Peevils off him.

Instead of falling back, she floats upward, carried by the strange gravity of Wilford’s void. Wilford jumps up at her, grabbing her by the shoulders. They grapple in midair as their momentum increases. Peevils’s back suddenly hits a wall that she’s certain wasn’t there a second ago. The blow knocks the wind out of her. Wilford grips her around the throat again. Instead of straddling her chest, he lets his body float up in front of her, where her arms and legs can’t reach.

Peevils knows that if she can’t figure out this strange candy-coated hellscape soon, she’s going to lose this fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate titles for this chapter include "Baby's First Fight Scene" and "How The Fuck Do You Write Wilford Warfstache." Dude is so erratic it's hard to get in his head accurately. Also, supposedly "hellscape" is not actually a word, but I conscientiously object to that notion. It's a word now, I decided. Fight me, Bill.
> 
> Next chapter will be up tomorrow!


	4. Snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're all losing control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, we get to meet Yandereplier! I honestly love that kid. And, fair warning, there's a bit of gore in this chapter. Surprisingly, these two things are completely unrelated.

Two floors above Wilford and Peevils’s struggle, Darkiplier is still in his office as Peevils commanded. Although his expression is empty and his is body still, his mind is racing. The words Peevils used are slowly wearing off. His mind is mostly clear of the fog the strange statements brought on, his throbbing headache has diminished to the point where it’s not the only thing he can think about. But he needs an outside push, something else to help him break through.

Luckily, it is about the time of morning that Yandereplier usually shows up at Dark’s office.

Nearly since the moment of his creation, Yandere has lived to please Dark. He admires the older ego deeply. Dark is evil, powerful, handsome, mysterious, and everything else Yandere could wish for in a senpai. There’s no one else Yandere would rather have as his senpai; indeed, even trying to imagine an existence without Dark is too upsetting for Yandere to do for very long. He does concede that Dark is becoming less mysterious to him as the days go by, but this is only a good thing. It means that Yandere is learning ever more about his senpai, getting ever closer to truly becoming his kohai. Back when Yandere was new, it was difficult to get much more than a sneer from Dark (which he still relished, because being noticed by senpai in any context is more than enough for Yandere, and always has been). But now, Dark notices Yandere all the time. If Yandere didn’t know any better, he’d guess that Dark has become _fond_ of him. Imagine that! Dark _liking_ Yandere. A blush rises to Yandere’s cheeks just thinking about it. Yandere tries not to get too ahead of himself. He sees how seriously Dark takes himself and tries to emulate that cool attitude. But he’s a teenager at heart; a hopelessly romantic and moody thing. It occurs to Yandere that most teenagers do not long for, seek out, or participate in mindless violence and bloodshed, but he has that youthful pride that assures him that he is better than some silly child. After all, _he_ gets noticed by Dark.

He hums to himself as he skips to Dark’s office. He doesn’t care enough about what others think not to, and besides, no one rooms on this floor but him and Dark (who, initially, was deeply unhappy to have to share a floor with the upstart young ego, but eventually seemed to get over it). When he gets to Dark’s office, he feels Dark’s aura from outside the door, and knows he’s there. Even though Dark always lets him in, Yandere always knocks anyway.

“ _Ohayou gozaimasu~!_ ” Yandere greets Dark through the door. “May I come in, Yami-san?”

Yandere waits for a reply. He waits again. A moment turns into a pause turns into a stretch and Dark has not responded. Yandere frowns. Even if Dark doesn’t want him to come in, he’d say so. Dark has never _not_ answered Yandere’s morning greeting. Not once. Even in the beginning he’d reply, if only to tell Yandere to go away. This silence is not like Dark. Yandere begins to feel his nerves prickle with anxiety.

“Yami-san, are you not feeling well?” Yandere asks. “I would never want to bother you when you’re sick, so please tell me if you’d prefer to be alone.”

Of course, if Dark is sick, Yandere would love to take care of him, but he knows that Dark would never abide by that. Either way, Dark still does not answer. Yandere get more nervous. He starts to notice that Dark’s aura, while still palpable through the closed door, is subdued, restrained. He’s been around Dark enough to get to know his aura as well. While the aura is irrevocably connected to Dark and can be controlled by him, it seems to have a mind of its own. It slithers differently depending on Dark’s state of mind, without Dark commanding that of it. Right now, Yandere can feel how closed-in and tight the normally loose and vibrating aura is. He’s seen Dark’s aura when he’s sick, and that isn’t nearly as bad as this. It dawns on Yandere that something has happened to his senpai. Something bad.

“Yami-san,” Yandere says, an anxious tremor in his voice, “I apologize, but I’m going to come in.”

Luckily, the door is not locked, so Yandere doesn’t have to break it down. It already amplifies his nerves to be entering Dark’s office without his permission; he doesn’t need the added stress that destroying his office door would bring. Yandere opens the door and steps inside, and is surprised to find Dark standing in the middle of the room, instead of sitting behind his desk as per usual. Even more shocking is the way his aura clings to him, black wisps barely branching out a few inches from Dark’s body before winding back in. Most shocking of all is the look on Dark’s face, hollow and utterly blank. Yandere gasps at the sight.

“Yami-san, what happened to you??” Yandere steps closer to Dark, cautiously, as if closing the distance between them might make Dark worse. For all Yandere knows, it will. Yandere is so like a teenager that he has a teenager’s insecurities, the same uncertainties that plague the victims of whole-hearted crushes. The young ego takes such care not to take his relationship with Dark for granted that he sometimes feels it could fall apart at any moment and he’d be forced to start again.

But Yandere notices a slight change in Dark’s aura. The tendrils still cannot go far, but rather than splitting off in random directions, they now reach out towards Yandere. If Dark cannot speak, Yandere decides he will have to trust his aura to tell him what the older ego wants. So Yandere continues to approach Dark, and the longer he looks at Dark’s face, at the strange empty expression of it, the more anxious he gets.

“Yami-san, please snap out of it,” Yandere says, his nerves upping the pitch of his voice. He’s right in front of Dark now, only a foot away. Dark is looking at Yandere, the younger ego can tell that much, but there seems to be little else he can do. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Yandere feels his heart hammer in his chest, and blush color his cheeks. He can’t help but react to his sudden proximity with his senpai. Hitting his emotions even harder is the fact that Dark’s aura is beckoning him still, urging him ever closer. But it’s too close. If Dark can’t tell Yandere to come up against him, chest-to-chest (Yandere reminds himself to breathe normally), then he won’t do it. He looks closer at the aura. Its movements have changed again. It angles itself a certain way, like it’s pointing at something. Yandere follows the trajectory of the wisps, and realizes that they’re pointing at Yandere’s hand.

For once, Yandere tries not to think too hard. He lifts his hand, and the aura reacts. Yandere lets it draw his hand up and closer, until he can feel it slithering between his fingers. Even subdued like this, its power makes Yandere shiver. It urges his hand forward like a cool, tugging wind. Yandere takes a deep breath in, and places his hand on Dark’s chest, just below his shoulder.

Something happens in Dark. His eyes close, his body tightens, then trembles. His aura shakes itself out and expands, regaining its power (it is fortunate that Yandere took a breath a moment ago, because the strength of the aura steals that breath and then some from his lungs). Dark’s body stills, relaxes, and when he opens his eyes, they’re as clear and sharp as they ever were.

“Yami-san,” Yandere breathes, cheeks completely red. He thinks he should probably stop touching Dark now, but he can’t pull his hand away.

“Thank you,” Dark says, huffing out a relieved sigh and rolling his shoulders. He steps back, and Yandere lets his hand fall away from Dark’s chest. He sees something new in Dark’s body language, something…worried? Angry? Afraid? Shaky though Yandere’s self-esteem can be, he’s certain Dark’s emotions have nothing to do with him. Though his expression is no longer so unnervingly detached, he still seems to be a million miles away.

“There’s no time to explain,” Dark says, “But something terrible is happening, and I have to stop it.” In the next moment, he disappears with a burst of black smoke.

Yandere blinks, mystified. He should probably be at least a little concerned for what Dark is getting himself into, but he’s still mired in the feelings of what just happened. His hand is still cool from Dark’s chest, and he imagines he can feel Dark’s suit beneath his hand, even now that he’s left.

Yandere and Dark have just had, Yandere believes, a moment. And he wants to live in that moment for as long as he can.

~~~

As Yandere is going to Dark’s office, Peevils is fighting with Wilford. He hasn’t beat her yet, but he’s getting close. The void they’re fighting in twists and turns with Wilford’s whims, doing everything short of throwing its own punches to give Wilford the edge. Every time Peevils gets the upper hand, the floor falls out from beneath her, or the wall she was slamming Wilford against disappears, or the cotton candy clouds of the void float over her eyes and obscure her vision. Wilford, it seems, was not kidding when he said he would not be fighting fair.

But Peevils doesn’t have to fight fair either.

She’s reluctant to use her language’s words again, so soon after using them on Dark. She doesn’t want to hurt herself with them, but she realizes now that she can’t win without them. If Wilford beats her, he’ll expel her from Mark. Once that happens, Peevils loses. And she cannot let that happen, not after all the time she’s spent planning this.

Wilford tries to choke her again, holding her down to the floor. The fight’s been going on so long that even Wilford is nearing his limit, so Peevils hopes to save herself some (literal) headache. Instead of pulling herself away, she pushes her head close to him, and whispers:

“ _Crexliq malgu ih trel._ ” The same phrase she used on Weather Jim so long ago, but amplified, worse.

She might have overdone it. The prickle in her head becomes a light throb, and she hears Mark groan. But it has the desired effect on Wilford, whose face goes white. He makes a sound that wants to be a loud cry of pain but is barely stronger than a whimper. Peevils grins and pushes herself up, flipping her and Wilford’s positions. She grabs Wilford by his shirt collar and slams his head into the ground as hard as she can.

There’s a crack, and a strained gasp. The void suddenly vanishes, and Peevils and Wilford are back in the studio. For a moment, Peevils can’t tell if she broke Wilford’s skull or his neck, but then he coughs, and his neck moves like it should. His skull, then.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Wilford gasps. Peevils almost laughs. Even with a fractured skull, half-blinded eyes, broken teeth and countless bruises, he’s still Wilford. Peevils gets up to look for Dark’s gun, not worried about Wilford stopping her. He manages to turn over onto his stomach, pushing himself up on his hands. His head swims when he tries to get up, both from Peevils’s words and the break in his skull. He feels blood drip out of his ears. He collapses onto his elbows, and can’t lift himself up any further. He looks up at Peevils as she returns, having found the gun. But before anything more can happen, they hear a knocking coming from the studio’s entrance.

“Hey, Wilford, did you still want help with those scripts?”

It’s Bim, of course. Peevils eyes Wilford, waiting to see what he’ll do. She sees how hard he’s thinking, trying to decide how to react. If he wanted, he could yell for Bim to come in, or at least try to. Peevils already knows he can still speak, injured though he is. She fully expects Wilford to call for Bim to come into the studio and kick her ass.

“Will? You in there?”

Wilford’s face clouds with something like resignation, but softer. He stays quiet. Peevils quirks an eyebrow, but Wilford doesn’t react.

“I…guess I’ll come back later?”

Peevils waits a few moments before speaking.

“Aww, how sentimental of you, Wilfy,” she teases, “Who knew you liked the guy so much.”

“Bim is my _friend_ ,” Wilford spits, “You wouldn’t know about those.”

“You mean we were never friends?” Peevils puts a hand over her heart. “You wound me, Wilford. I’m pretty sure you at least _thought_ we were friends. I have to admit, I think I like you more than anyone else in this place. And I’ll give you credit where it’s due; you really gave me a run for my money just now. Not like the Host,” she grins, “He went out like a bitch.”

Wilford’s eyes widen and his face twists in anguish, like the news of the Host’s death causes him more pain than Peevils’s alien words ever could. As much as she enjoys his reaction, Peevils doesn’t give him time to get angry enough to retaliate before she shoots.

The bullet lodges into Wilford’s forehead. His body slumps into the floor. Blood pools around his head. Mark starts to cry again, as fiercely as he did for the Host, more so. It practically hurts him physically, twists up his heart to see one of his oldest egos, the face of his channel, someone so larger than life that he barely understood mortality, dead on the floor.

(The sound of the gunshot carries far, echoing in the high ceilings of the studio and bouncing out into the hall outside, just catching Bim’s awareness. Already mystified by Wilford’s silence, he feels anxiety wriggle up his back.)

(Dr. Iplier’s clinic is too far away for the sound of the gunshot to travel. But once again he feels that shot of pain in his chest, this time as he’s checking his own heartrate. It spikes for the duration of the ache but quickly settles back into normalcy. The doctor is as confused about the pain’s cause as ever.)

Peevils, for her part, lets herself take a breather.

“Sheesh, Wilford’s a piece of work,” she huffs. Her (Mark’s) body aches all over, especially her neck, which she’s sure is bruising, and her head, which might have a concussion. “For not wanting to kill you he sure did do a number on your body.”

Mark, still weeping, doesn’t answer. Peevils rolls her eyes, then thinks.

“You know,” she says, “Wilford never did show me his gun closet. I wonder what he’s got.”

She knows that Wilford’s gun closet is in his bedroom, which is directly attached to the back of the studio. She’s never been inside it, and never had an inclination to be, aside from wanting to see Wilford’s gun closet. But, as Wilford had said with a wiggle of his moustache and a wink, “I don’t show my guns to just _anyone_.” But Wilford’s dead, so Peevils will check out his guns regardless of what he wants.

She walks to the bedroom, opens the door, and finds that perhaps the term “gun closet” was something of a misnomer. The bedroom, while containing a bed and dresser and clothes closet and all the typical bedroom things, has guns hanging from every spot on the wall, including the ceiling. They don’t appear to be organized in any fashion, or at least not any fashion that Peevils can detect. They’re simply wherever there’s space. She looks around, amazed despite herself.

“Man, where did Wilford even _get_ these?” Peevils asks, more to herself than to Mark, who is still crying. Peevils looks up above her at the ceiling. “Is that a _bazooka??_ A bit overkill for my taste, but man, Wilford has some style.”

Then, suddenly, Peevils hears a sound in the studio, a quiet whoosh. Immediately after it comes a palpable wave of hatred and anger, and her ears begin to ring. Has it been half an hour already? Definitely not.

“Ugh,” Peevils mutters, “Can’t a girl catch a break?”

Meanwhile, Dark, having just shaken off Peevils’s alien words with Yandere’s help, looks around the studio and nearly immediately spots who he’s looking for. He curses under his breath.

It’s too late. Wilford’s already dead. No doubt the Host is, too.

But Dark isn’t about to lay down and accept things yet. He still has to stop Peevils from killing Mark, and get her out of his body. It occurs to Dark that he’d never thought he’d be so desperate to keep Mark _alive_ , but it’s what he has to do. Wilford and the Host may have had their disagreements, pretty severe disagreements in the Host’s case, but at one point they might have called Dark a friend, and Dark might have done the same to them. Even if not, Dark is the leader, and every leader has a duty to their followers. Besides, no small part of him wants revenge for what Peevils did to him. Taking away his free will, forcing him to help her, _using_ him…no one turns the tables on him and gets away with it.

He walks through the studio, searching for Peevils. His aura is writhing with rage, spitting inky smoke out into the air around him. Before long, Dark reaches the back of the studio, and sees that Wilford’s bedroom door is ajar. He pushes it open and walks inside to see Peevils, still in Mark’s body, loading a long, powerful revolver she’s picked from Wilford’s wall. Her back is to him, but she straightens as she senses Dark’s presence.

“So, the words wore off, huh?” Peevils asks, not turning around. “You’re a tough cookie, Dark. And you sure are fashionably late.”

“Your plan ends here,” Dark growls, voice vibrating with fury.

“Oh, sure,” Peevils says, “Get me out of Mark’s head without killing him. See if you can.” She finally turns to look at him. She’s smiling. “You could still join me, you know. You can kill Mark right now and we could run the show like I’ve planned. Or I can just do it myself.” She raises the revolver she’s finished loading to her (Mark’s) temple. Mark whimpers with fear, too weakened from crying to be any louder. “It’ll be pretty messy that way, sure, but I can totally just kill Mark on my own right now.”

There’s a short pause. Nothing happens.

“But you won’t,” Dark says. Something icy churns in his veins. Is this terror?

“I won’t,” Peevils repeats.

“You aren’t going to stop now,” Dark continues, realization dawning, “You never were.”

“Nope.” Peevils shakes her head.

“You’re going to kill them all,” Dark breathes.

“Bingo.” Peevils grins.

Dark is the oldest ego, the strongest, and the onus to keep the others safe therefore falls on him. Whatever happens, whatever events come to pass, whatever disagreeable things he might have to do to reach his goals or keep the peace, Dark will never let the other egos fade. He remembers the times they’ve come close, the times certain egos were almost forgotten, and how hard he worked to bring them back into the consciousness of the fanbase. He remembers almost fading himself, how it felt to lose himself into the air, surviving only by the skin of his teeth. He remembers, still, when he was only out for himself, with no one else to protect. He remembers how it felt to be the king of an empty castle.

Not again. Never again.

Peevils, clearly, is weakened. She’s covered with bruises, her neck is mottled purple, and there’s dried blood in twisty lines below her nostrils and down her chin. With his aura and physical strength, Dark can overpower her easily.

But Peevils knows this, too, and she knows better than to try her words on him again. Her alien words, that is.

“Hey Dark, before you kill me or whatever,” Peevils begins, “I have to ask, how did you not see through my plan right away?” She lowers the gun from her head and turns back around, away from Dark. “I figured the second I implied that my desire for death and suffering could be quenched by killing just two people you’d kick me right out of your office.”

It’s a trap. It has to be. But Dark knows she’s used all her tricks, and he has yet to use his.

“You’ve lost your touch,” Peevils continues, turning the gun around in her hands, “You’re so used to being the most powerful player at the table that you’ve gotten arrogant. I wanted to work with you, truly, but I do hate you. So much pride, so much pomp and circumstance, and for what? You couldn’t even recognize a liar when she stared you in the face. And you couldn’t stop her when it mattered.”

Peevils doesn’t see it, but she hears Dark’s shell crack, warping wildly in the air, letting out an angry scream. But she waits, waits until the moment she feels Dark’s aura reach out and grab at her consciousness. At that moment, she puts the gun up and fires at the ceiling, and ducks down. There’s a bang, a boom, and Peevils feels heat lick at her back, and a couple pieces of metal bite into her shoulders. She hisses, but stays crouched until the heat dissipates. She then pulls the shards of metal from her back as she stands up and turns to see her handiwork.

“Huh,” she says, “I actually wasn’t sure that would work.” She wrinkles her nose. “A bit messy for my taste, though.”

The bazooka she’d admired earlier is nothing more than a charred black mark on the ceiling and a thousand bits of shrapnel on the floor. Dark, it seems, was almost exactly underneath the bazooka when Peevils’s bullet hit it, left with no time to poof somewhere else or shield himself. His upper body and face are littered with shrapnel. One large piece has shattered through his nose, sticking up from his face like a shark’s fin, leaving a hole of gore in its wake. His eyes are still there, but his mouth is nearly gone, tongue torn up by force and metal, bits of teeth like oversized grains of sand littering the area. Some of his hair is burnt off, leaving brittle black strands and a patch of shiny, mottled red skull. A pool of blood surrounds him. Peevils feels Mark’s wave of revulsion, hears him gag.

“You should be used to this,” Peevils notes, “After all the violent horror games you’ve played.”

She isn’t sure exactly how long she has before Dark comes back, but she knows it probably won’t be long. There’s a lot of factors to figment regeneration, and willpower is one of them. Dark’s resolve to stop Peevils will no doubt help him return to life pretty fast.

Still, she probably has a couple hours or so. And a couple hours are all she needs.

The next part of the plan is the last thing she has fully fleshed out. She’d seen once, in the control room where the Googles monitor the ins and outs of the building, a map of the building’s air vents. It had piqued her interest, and she’d ended up going back to it several times. She hadn’t tried to steal it, or memorize the whole thing, neither of which would’ve been practical. But she _had_ memorized one section of it, one that begins in Wilford’s studio, in a vent behind the stage.

First, though, Peevils needs a power nap. Wilford really had dished out a beating, and she can still hear the ringing of Dark’s aura in her ears.

She flops onto Wilford’s bed and falls asleep almost immediately. Mark tries to use the opportunity to break free, but he’s exhausted too, and his connection to Peevils means that he falls asleep himself, left to dream Peevils’s dreams of blood and gore, of destruction yet to be wrought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chekhovs_bazooka.docx
> 
> Look, I don't know how guns work. I don't know how bazookas work. And considering I write these chapters at 2 am, there's only so much I can research before I burn out. Hope it didn't ruin your suspension of disbelief too bad.
> 
> Also, I feel compelled to mention that I borrowed the idea of Yandere calling Dark "Yami" from writtenFIRES, whose ego fics give me life. Hope you don't mind? ;w; Really, I just wish I'd thought of it myself.
> 
> Next chapter, unfortunately, probably won't be up until Monday. I work tomorrow and I'll probably be put on for Sunday, too. If the wait gets to be too much, you can always talk to me on Tumblr if you want! See you in a few days!


	5. Massacre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Flames they licked the walls  
> Tenderly they turned to dust all that I adored"  
> -Bastille, "Things We Lost In The Fire"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't hate me already, you will by the time you're done with this chapter. Buckle up, kiddos.

While Peevils naps, Bim is thinking.

He’s now in his bedroom on the fourth floor, and he still isn’t sure what’s up with Wilford. The man is pretty much _always_ in his studio; Bim knocks out of politeness more than anything. That, and so he doesn’t get a bullet or a knife to the chest. But Wilford must have been in there, the gunshot Bim had heard as he was leaving attested to that. Unless someone else was in Wilford’s studio firing a gun, but who? And why? And if it _was_ Wilford, why hadn’t he answered Bim’s knock? Bim feels like he might be overthinking it, something he tends to do quite a bit. But then again, something might actually be happening this time. He spends what feels like an eternity trying to read a book (he borrowed it from the Host a few days ago and is already three-fourths of the way done with it), but he can’t concentrate. When he hears a knocking at his door, he decides that reading is not in the cards for him today and gets up to answer. Part of him hopes it’s Wilford, but the same part of him is unsurprised to find that it isn’t.

But he _is_ surprised that it’s Yandere.

“Yandere?” Bim asks. “Um, hello. Did you need something?”

Bim and Yandere are not friends. Bim doesn’t dislike Yandere, and Yandere seems pretty indifferent to Bim, but Bim generally avoids the younger, more violent and volatile ego. If he’s being honest with himself, Yandere freaks him out. Even when he’s pleasant there’s the sense that something burns beneath the surface.

“ _Konnichiwa,_ Bim-san,” Yandere greets, “I just wanted to ask you about something.”

“Alright, what?” Bim asks.

“Earlier, there was, well…” Yandere scratches the back of his neck nervously, “…an incident with Yami-san. I was wondering if you knew anything about that.”

“Incident?” Bim furrows his brow. That doesn’t sound good. “What do you mean?”

“Someone did something to him,” Yandere explains, “It was like he’d been put under a spell. He couldn’t move until…” Yandere’s cheeks redden slightly, “…I snapped him out of it. But after I did, he said something bad was happening and that he had to stop it. He teleported somewhere, but he didn’t say where he was going.” Yandere’s face draws up with concern as he remembers. “He seemed…unnerved. Scared, even. What could possibly have made Yami-san afraid?”

Bim remembers the events from earlier again. He feels a spike of worry in his chest. Could this be connected?

“I have no idea,” Bim answers, mostly truthfully. He could be wrong; whatever’s going on with Wilford could be completely unrelated to Dark. He doesn’t want to send Yandere on a wild goose chase, especially when said chase would involve Yandere barging into Wilford’s studio uninvited. That would most likely only make things worse. Bim can get to the bottom of this without Yandere. He’s Bim Trimmer, after all! And he knows exactly who _can_ help him out.

“Well, _arigtou_ anyway, Bim-san,” Yandere sighs, “I already talked to Tayori-kun and Tenki-kun, but they didn’t know anything either.” Annoyance crosses his face. “They were so panicky and jittery it took me forever to even get a good answer from them. It was like they thought I was going to hurt them. Why would I ever do something like that?” Yandre tilts his head and smiles. Bim shivers.

“Yeah, the Jims are pretty nervous guys,” Bim says smoothly, trying not to let Yandere’s grin scare him. “Wish I could be more help.”

“ _Arigatou_ again, Bim-san,” Yandere says with a little wave, “ _Sayonara~!_ ”

Bim manages a half-hearted wave of his own as Yandere leaves. He closes the door and spends a few minutes thinking over what Yandere told him.

Dark? Afraid? What on earth could possibly make Dark, of all people, afraid? Bim hates to think. And what could ever control him, make him unable to move? Bim wonders if Yandere might have mistaken the situation, but he knows that the younger ego knows Dark much better than Bim does.

Once he’s sure he won’t have to worry about running into Yandere in the hallway, he leaves his room and heads for the third floor. He takes the stairs, not wanting to bother with the elevator, which often takes longer to get down one floor than walking, anyhow. Once there, he heads not for Wilford’s studio, but for the control room.

That’s the general nickname for the room, anyway. It’s where the security of the entire building is managed, camera feeds and firewalls and the microphone for the building’s intercom. It was the Googles who built the room and continue to refine its gadgets by the day, and their shared bedroom is located behind a steel door on one side of the room. Bim generally likes going to the control room, if only because Oliver is usually there. He’s optimistic and kind and cute and Bim gets so wrapped up in thoughts of Oliver that he almost walks right past the control room. No one’s around to see it, but pink rises in cheeks anyway. He knocks on the door, and it clangs loudly. Bim grimaces. He always knocks louder than he means to on that door. It’s Oliver who opens it, grinning when he sees Bim.

“Hey, Bim!” he greets, “What’s up?”

“Hi, Ollie!” Bim replies, smiling big despite his worries about Dark and Wilford, “I actually wanted to know if you and the others could, uh, check on something for me?”

Oliver tilts his head slightly in confusion (it’s almost too cute for Bim to handle), and a voice speaks up from inside the control room:

“We’re not errand boys, and we’re not babysitters. Check on it yourself.”

Bim recognizes the voice and caustic sass as being Google’s. He’s in front of some small machine, poking at its wires, not even looking at Bim. Chrome and Plus are on the machine’s other sides, doing the same. Bim frowns.

“At least let me explain,” he mutters. Oliver looks like he’s trying not to grin, but he comes to Bim’s defense.

“Yeah, Google,” he says, turning to the other android, “Bim hardly ever asks you for anything, it’s probably important.” He turns back to Bim. “It _is_ important, right? Google’ll be pretty peeved if it isn’t.”

“It is,” Bim insists, “Have a little faith in Bim Trimmer!”

“Of course, of course,” Oliver laughs. Bim _loves_ Oliver’s laugh. Despite all technically having the same voice, each ego sounds a little different, and each ego has a different laugh. Oliver’s laugh is bright and giggly, sunflowers and strawberries, gentle and, wait, Bim came here for a reason.

“Can I come in, at least?” Bim asks past Oliver to Google.

“No.” Google tugs out two wires and plugs them into each other’s places. “Run the next trial,” he says to Chrome and Plus. Bim sighs.

“Alright, well,” he begins, “I went to Wilford’s studio to work on scripts with him, but he didn’t answer my knock. As I was leaving, I heard a gunshot go off.”

“I _knew_ I heard something a while ago!” Chrome says suddenly, triumphant. He looks at Google. “And you thought I was just being dramatic.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Google replies without missing a beat. Chrome mutters something under his breath that Bim can’t hear. “That’s not that weird, Bim,” Google continues.

“I know, that’s why I didn’t come to you guys right after it happened,” Bim explains, “But then a few minutes ago Yandere came to my room, saying that something happened to Dark and he was trying to figure out what was going on.”

Surprise colors the faces of all four androids, and Google finally lifts his head from the machine to look at Bim.

“What happened to Dark?” he asks.

“Yandere said someone had done something to him, made it so he couldn’t move,” Bim says, repeating Yandere’s words, “After he snapped out of it, he left, and he didn’t tell Yandere where he was going. He just said that something bad was happening, and that he had to stop it. Yandere said he looked scared.” Bim looks down. “I can’t help but feel like what happened to Dark and what happened in Wilford’s studio are connected. Can you guys maybe check the cameras, see if anything happened in the studio?” Oliver turns from Bim to look at Google, as do Chrome and Plus. Google considers for a moment.

“Fine,” he says, “But you still can’t come in.”

“I’ll let you know if we find anything,” Oliver tells Bim as he turns back to him, “You should probably go, Google can tell if someone’s standing outside the door.”

“Alright,” Bim replies, smiling a little at Oliver. “Thank you.” He looks at Google. “Thanks!”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Google says as he types something into the camera feed. Chrome and Plus look on, clearly curious.

“Talk to you later?” Bim says to Oliver, trying not to smile too hard.

“Yeah!” Oliver replies, giving his own sunny grin. “See ya!”

Bim decides to walk back up to his room and try again to finish his book. He wonders if he’ll be able to focus with all the butterflies floating in his chest. Being with Oliver always gives him a curious feeling afterwards, something warm and bright and uplifting. He wonders if Oliver is even half as happy to talk to him. He hopes so.

As he approaches the staircase, he’s surprised to run into Ed Edgar. The other ego has a gash in his arm, dripping blood. After all Bim has heard today, he’s immediately nervous.

“Ed, what happened?” Bim asks as he approaches the other ego.

“I had a run-in with a real nasty varmint,” Ed explains, “Was just headin’ to Doc to get patched up. Lemme tell ya what happened. I was just mindin’ my own business, doin’ some target practice, when all of a sudden…”

Well, at least it wasn’t Peevils. Bim realizes too late that he’s opened a can of worms, but it’s too late to back out of the conversation now. Once Ed starts telling one of his (long, usually not as interesting as he thinks they are) stories, no force on earth can stop him. Hopefully the Googles figure out what’s up with Wilford and Dark soon, if anything so he has an excuse to at least pause the story for a moment.

~~~

Google pulls up the information to connect to the studio cameras, putting in passcodes and getting each screen online. Instead of looking at the current screens, he brings up the file to access past recordings.

“Chrome, how long ago exactly did you hear the gunshot?” Google asks.

“Twenty-five minutes and forty-six seconds ago,” Chrome answers.

“You ought to go back twenty-seven,” Plus chimes in, “So we can see what led up to it.”

“I wasn’t made yesterday, Plus,” Google replies as he does what Plus suggested. Plus starts to protest, but Oliver claps a hand on his shoulder and shoots him a reassuring grin. With a few more clicks, Google gets the footage up from twenty-seven minutes ago exactly. He brings up the file to access past recordings. None of them are prepared for what they see.

Wilford, on the floor, clearly injured and unable to get up. Mark, too, looking just as beat up, walking across the room, looking for something. The feed is in black and white, and the audio is hard to distinguish.

“What is this?” Google mutters, eyes narrowing. “And why is the quality so terrible?”

“I attempted to tell you that the studio cameras need replacing the other day,” Plus tells him, “But you said it was no big deal.”

“Yeah.” Chrome smirks. “I think your exact words were, ‘Wilford always breaks them anyway, so why bother?’” The younger androids hardly ever get a chance to fire back at Google like this, so they can’t help but take the chance. Oliver stifles a giggle, but the strangeness presented on the feed means he isn’t laughing for long.

“Really though, what’s going on?” Oliver asks, “What’s Mark doing here? And what—”

He was about to ask what Mark was looking for, but the feed shows him picking something up. It’s a gun. All four Googles stare with rapt attention. Mark walks to Wilford, holds it up, is about to shoot when a sound comes through. Not a gunshot, but a knocking.

“Bim,” Oliver murmurs.

They can only barely hear Bim’s voice through the poor audio feed, but their finely-tuned systems recognize his voice clearly. Bim leaves before long, and Mark and Wilford start to talk. The words are hard to make out. Wilford is angry. Mark is pleased, gloating, almost. There’s something deeply wrong about the situation. The Googles are aware of that even before they finally find out the source of the gunshot: Mark lifting the gun again and shooting Wilford in the head. All four of them are stunned.

“ _Shit,_ ” Google mutters, wracking his brain for answers.

“What the fuck!?” Chrome shouts, voice filled with anger. “How could Mark do this?”

“He couldn’t,” Oliver gasps, tears in his eyes, “There’s no way Mark would ever do something like this.”

“Oliver’s right,” Plus says, “Objectively speaking. It’s completely out of Mark’s character to ever cause such harm to another person, especially one he’s friends with.”

“Well, what the fuck do call _that,_ then??” Chrome yells, pointing at the still-running feed. The camera that shows Wilford no longer has Mark in frame, but he can be clearly seen in Wilford’s room on a different screen, eyeing the ego’s guns without a hint of remorse in his posture.

“That’s not Mark,” Google interjects, “Look at the way he’s walking, his body language. It’s too different.”

“Dark, then?” asks Oliver.

“No…” Google peers at Mark again. “Too relaxed. Besides, Dark’s tried a hundred times to get Mark to let him in, why would he suddenly succeed now?”

“Also besides,” Plus adds, “Dark’s right there.”

Everyone turns to where Plus is pointing. The first camera, showing Wilford’s body, now shows Dark as well. He looks angrier than any of the Googles have seen him look in a long time. Even through a camera feed in the past, the Googles can feel his hatred.

“Alright, it’s not Dark,” Chrome mutters, “But who, then? No one else has that kind of ability.”

For several moments, everyone is silent.

“Well…” Oliver finally speaks up. The others look at him. “…Do…any of us really _know_ what Peevils can do? Everyone else is pretty open with their abilities, or else they’re really obvious, but it hasn’t been like that with her. She’s pretty new, but it usually doesn’t take that long for our powers to show up…” His face screws up with anxious sadness. “Weren’t she and Wilford friends?”

“I…think Oliver is right,” Plus says quietly, as the camera shows Dark confronting Mark (Peevils?) in Wilford’s room. “The way he’s moving, and acting…it’s not exactly like Peevils, but it’s close.”

“She’s been playing us this whole fucking time,” Chrome growls, seething with rage as he and the others watch Peevils, in Mark’s body, shoot up at the ceiling as Dark reaches for her, radiating fury. There’s a boom, a burst of smoke and fire that conceals the camera’s view for a long moment. When the dust settles, there’s a burn mark on the ceiling and Dark is dead.

“Dark can come back from being killed by Mark, but Will…” Oliver holds back a sob.

“We have to find her.” Google’s voice is cold. “We have to find her and send out an alert over the intercom.” He turns to Plus. “Get the feed for the studio back to real time. We’ll all check different rooms.”

The four each take a keyboard, going through different cameras and feeds. Plus fast-forwards the studio feed until it’s live.

“Peevils isn’t in the studio anymore,” Plus says.

“Go back, figure out when she left, and which direction she went,” Google answers, checking second-floor hallways. Nothing. Plus rewinds, until he sees Peevils appear behind the stage. He stops, plays, and gasps.

“What?” Google asks.

“She went in the vents,” Plus breathes.

All four of them freeze. The room is deadly silent.

“How long ago?” Google asks, voice quiet.

“Three minutes and twen—”

A crack cuts through the air. Plus’s head jolts forward, as if he’s been pushed. The top of his head dampens. The heady scent of motor oil fills the space of the control room. Plus’s eyes roll back and he collapses into a heap. Oliver and Chrome both scream; Oliver in anguish, Chrome in anger.

“Plus, no, no,” Oliver cries, tangling his hands in his hair as tears roll down his cheeks.

“Peevils, you fucking coward, where are you??” Chrome yells, head whipping around the room, trying to locate her but too angry to think clearly.

Google, though, is still frozen in place. After a long moment (too long), he manages to collect his wits enough to think. There’s two vents in the room, he knows that much. One is small and near the floor. He peers at it, and even his enhanced vision sees nothing. He looks to the one on the ceiling, a few feet back from where he and the others are standing. He catches a glint of metal that he knows isn’t part of the vent just before another gunshot sounds. He whips his head around to catch Chrome, caught in the middle of an angry tirade, shudder and collapse. Oliver cries out again.

“Chrome, not you, too!” he wails, falling to his knees beside his brothers. Google tears his eyes away to look back at the vent.

He can see the gun, he sees a familiar broad chest, a familiar set of brown eyes. He wants to use his laser vision and destroy the gun, but if it explodes, it could kill Mark. Google instead follows the guns trajectory with his eyes, landing on Oliver’s forehead.

“Oliver!” He grabs him by the arm and pulls him up, but he isn’t fast enough to pull him away. The bullet hits his chest. Then another appears there. Another. All so fast, even Google can’t react right away (He should be faster than any human. Why isn’t he now??)

“ _Dammit,_ ” Google mutters, before running out of the control room, yanking Oliver behind him. He practically knocks the door off its hinges in its haste. He has to get to the clinic. Oliver may be an android, but he’s still humanoid, and there’s no way Google can go back to the control room for supplies to repair Oliver himself. He doesn’t get far when he runs into Bim and Ed Edgar, who are running in their direction.

“We heard gunfire, what’s—” Ed’s words die in his throat when he sees Oliver. “What in tarnation happened here??”

“Ollie,” Bim chokes out, hardly able to form the word. He can feel his gut twisting up at the sight of Oliver sporting three holes in his chest, leaking motor oil onto the floor.

“Bim, you were right,” Google says somberly, “Something is _wrong._ ”

“Lemme handle this,” says Ed, full of bravado, producing a lean rifle from somewhere unseen.

“Ed, no—” Oliver tries to stop him, but he starts to cough black oil, and wobbles on his feet as Ed dashes away. Google hisses with frustration but doesn’t stop him, instead putting Oliver’s arm around his shoulders to hold him up.

“Are you gonna make yourself useful or just stand there?” Google says to Bim. Bim, eyes still wide with shock, shakes himself off and takes Oliver’s other arm. He and Google speed off towards Dr. Iplier’s clinic with Oliver between them.

Dr. Iplier is still dealing with those strange pangs of pain, having felt two in quick succession moments ago, and now feeling a third seize his chest and squeeze at his heart. All the tests he’s done have revealed no abnormalities, and Dr. Iplier is at a loss. He’s shaken from his thoughts when the clinic door bursts open, and Google and Bim come in, toting a badly injured Oliver. He jumps up and runs to them, ushering them to lay Oliver on the nearest surface, which happens to be a stretcher.

“How did this happen??” Dr. Iplier asks as he yanks gauze out of a cabinet. There’s two egos he knows of who use guns, but he can’t see why either of them would want to hurt Oliver like this.

“It was Peevils,” Google answers. Bim and Dr. Iplier both turn to him, shocked. “She’s possessed Mark, we don’t know why but…” Google looks at Bim. “…We checked the cameras like you asked. She killed Wilford first and came through the vent to the control room.”

A strangled sob leaves Bim’s throat, and Dr. Iplier goes cold all over, even as he presses pads of gauze onto Oliver’s wounds. They know as well as Google does what it means for Wilford, and for Oliver, that Peevils has used Mark to shoot them. Dr. Iplier doesn’t want to, but he forces himself to look at Oliver, not his chest but just over his head. He’s learned not to look at times of death when talking to the egos; figments are such transient yet eternal creatures that their times of death fluctuate wildly from day to day, at times from minute to minute. But he has a bad feeling about Oliver’s time. Sure enough, he sees the numbers written in red, not the normal cool blue. He knows what this means. He moves his hands away from Oliver’s chest, taking the gauze with it.

“What are you doing?” asks Google, noticing Dr. Iplier’s behavior immediately. Dr. Iplier takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, “He’s—”

In the next moment, Google is holding Dr. Iplier in the air by his shirt collar, eyes flashing angry blue.

“If you finish that sentence, I’m going to rip your heart out of your chest and shove it down your throat,” Google growls. Dr. Iplier only sighs.

“I’m really, truly sorry, Google,” he says, voice subdued, “But his time is set now, and it’s coming soon. There’s nothing I can do.” Google searches the doctor’s face, trying to catch him in a lie. But he sees the sadness and resignation in the doctor’s eyes, and knows he’s telling the awful truth.

Bim, having rushed to Oliver’s side after he was first laid down, is weeping now, body curling in on itself, like the grief is eating him whole. Google releases Dr. Iplier and moves to Oliver’s other side, finds himself gripping Oliver’s hand in his own. Oliver, while still awake and aware, is breathing weakly, sometimes coughing, with motor oil staining his shirt and dripping from his mouth.

“Oliver, listen to me,” Google says, voice hard yet a note too high, “You cannot die. You can’t. Not after Plus and Chrome…” He screws his eyes shut, sees them falling dead again, and opens his eyes back up. “…I cannot function without my upgrade. I need you.”

Oliver coughs, then looks up at Google, smiling sadly. He squeezes the older ego’s hand.

“Blue, are you scared?” he murmurs, affectionate and gentle (Google can’t recall the last time anyone called him by his color). “It’s okay, so am I. But if anyone can fix this, it’s you.” He seems to want to say more, but is seized by a coughing fit before he can.

Google is an android. Even with the ability to experience and understand emotion, he shouldn’t feel like _this_. His internal systems should have something in place, a failsafe, something that stops him from getting choked up or freezing in a crisis or feeling like the thing he threatened Dr. Iplier with is happening to him, feeling like his heart is being torn out through his ribs.

“Ollie,” Bim gasps, unable to say anything more. He grabs Oliver’s other hand, and squeezes it tight between his own.

Dr. Iplier stands apart from the others, hand on his mouth, brows furrowed, somber and sad but as cool under pressure as a doctor has to be. Still, there are tears in the back of his eyes that he has to force himself not to cry.

Oliver shudders, draws a last-ditch breath, and relaxes into the stretcher. Google and Bim each feel the hand in their grasp go limp.

Bim cries ever harder, practically suffocating from the sobs. He holds Oliver’s hand to his cheek like he can warm life back into it, not wanting to let go. Google, meanwhile, is frozen again, like he was when the first shot rang out into Plus. How long ago was that? Google can’t focus enough to come up with an exact time. He, too, keeps Oliver’s hand in his own. He feels something on his cheeks, something liquid and warm. Tears? What else could it be? But Google has never cried before, not once. He hadn’t thought he was capable of it. But he also hadn’t thought he was capable of feeling so distraught, of feeling like time has stopped and the world is breaking down around him.

But the most dramatic reaction comes from Dr. Iplier. As Oliver dies, the doctor’s eyes go wide. He covers his face with his hands, moans, and sinks into a chair. Bim notices first, and for all his anguish over Oliver, Dr. Iplier’s behavior alarms him.

“I _felt_ it,” Dr. Iplier gasps.

“What do you mean?” Bim asks, voice shaky and wet. Google now notices the doctor as well, and looks at him, his expression echoing Bim’s question. Dr. Iplier, meanwhile, takes a hand away from his face to clutch at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. With part of his face revealed, the other two egos can see how his features are drawn with pain and ruin, and how tears are snaking their way down his cheeks.

“All day, all fucking day I’ve been getting these…” The doctor breathes in, trying to steady himself. “…these pains, these aches in my chest. They always passed quickly but they kept happening and I couldn’t figure out what they were, but…” He looks up at Google and Bim, eyes clouded with grief. “…I felt it again just now, when Oliver died, and I know, I _know_ what it is now.” He takes his other hand off his face, letting it join his other on his chest, over his heart. “I know what it means, and I’ve felt it five other times today.”

Google and Bim feel their hearts sink into their feet. But Google, upset though he is, tries to think clearly.

“Earlier,” he says, voice colder than he intends it to be, “Before I brought Oliver in, Peevils killed Plus and Chrome.” Dr. Iplier nods, tears still dripping down his cheeks.

“I did feel two pains not long before you came in, one after the other,” he says, “But there was a third one after, right as you came in.”

“Ed,” Bim gasps, face going white, “He was with me, we were talking, and we heard gunshots from the control room. When he saw what happened to Oliver he took out his rifle and said he’d take care of it…” Bim covers his face and moans. “We should’ve stopped him.”

“And about half an hour ago now,” Google adds, “Wilford.” Dr. Iplier nods again, but his face is screwed up in thought.

“That’s consistent with what I felt, but there’s one more,” he says, voice serious and low, “Before Wilford. Are you sure there’s no one else?”

“Not that I know of,” Google answers. Aside from Dark, but he was killed after Wilford, Google remembers. Not to mention that Dark’s died before, but it was never permanent, and it isn’t permanent now.

“You can’t tell who it is?” Bim asks.

“No,” Dr. Iplier sighs sadly, “The pain feels the same every time, and it’s all I get.”

The three are silent for several moments, processing what’s occurred.

Then they hear the intercom crackle to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just remember that if you kill me, you won't find out how this ends! Please no hurty ;w;
> 
> Next chapter will be up tomorrow!


	6. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "grief is a house  
> where the chairs  
> have forgotten how to hold us  
> the mirrors how to reflect us  
> the walls how to contain us"  
> -Jandy Nelson, "The Sky Is Everywhere"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where things might start getting confusing, because we start following around a bunch of people at once. Consistent POV whom? I don't know her. Let me know if it's too hard to follow, and I'll try to work on it.
> 
> Last chapter was pretty bonkers, so luckily for you it's a little calmer this time around. Happy(?) reading!

“Helloooo everybody, my name is Markiplier!”

The voice over the intercom laughs Mark’s bright, rolling laugh, but there’s something wrong in it. The pitch is too high, the tone is too mocking. Google, Bim, and Dr. Iplier meet each other’s eyes. They already know who this is.

“Oh man, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. This intercom sure was tricky to figure out, but it was definitely worth it for that.” Peevils giggles one last time as she composes herself. “Anyway, my name isn’t Markiplier. My name’s Peevils. I’m sure we’ve met.” She giggles again.

“This…this is…” Bim tries to articulate his thoughts on how horrible the situation is, but can’t.

“You all thought I was _harmless,_ ” Peevils continues, “A little mean and a bit mischievous, sure, but there was a real sweetie somewhere in that impish heart, wasn’t there? Isn’t there?” Her voice hardens. “The answer is no. But I had to pretend. I had to pretend to be at least somewhat nice so I could make this plan. This plan I’m enacting now, with Mark’s help. Not his _willing_ help, of course; he’s been trying very hard to get me out of his body. But I’m not going anywhere. He doesn’t have enough willpower to force me out, not when he’s so busy crying over the people I’ve killed. Oops,” Peevils feigns embarrassment, “Did I say that out loud? Well, I know at least a couple of you already know what’s going on. No harm in telling it to the rest, I suppose. Really, my plan’s pretty genius; I’m happy to tell you all about it. Especially since I know you’re a captive audience. Thank you, Googles, for making the lockdown protocol quiet and easy to initiate. Or I guess Google, since I’m fairly sure the other three are no longer with us.”

Google grits his teeth and his eyes glow blue.

“If I find her,” Google snarls, “I’m going to rip her apart.”

“She’s in Mark’s body,” Dr. Iplier reminds him, voice hollow, “If you hurt her, you hurt Mark.”

“All of you want something as a figment,” Peevils says, “All of you have desires that you live for. Mine were always the same two things: Attention and destruction. My original would never use Mark to get more fame, so I’m gonna do it for her. But I can’t have any of you getting in my way, can I? Sure, I’ve already taken out some of your strongest players, but that’s not enough. It won’t be enough until I’m the only living figment in this building. Well, aside from Dark, pesky asshole can’t be killed by Mark alone. But when all is said and done and I’ve killed Mark to make sure none of you come back, do you really think he’ll pass up on the opportunity to take Mark’s channel? He’s only been dreaming about it since he was made. I don’t think he’ll be of any help to you.”

“That’s not true,” Google says, remembering the camera feed, “Dark confronted Peevils in the studio. He wanted to stop her.”

“What happened?” Bim asks.

“…She killed him.” Google answers. Dr. Iplier sighs.

“And I’m sure some of you are wondering why I’m doing this,” Peevils goes on, “Why I’m monologuing my evil plan like some sort of supervillain. I already told you why, remember? I’m sick of pretending. I’m done with pretending to be something I’m not, tired of pretending to be nice, tired of pretending to be Mark. I want to _see_ the fear in your eyes when I find where you’re hiding. And I will find where you’re hiding. This building is only so big, and both your reality-warpers are, ah, out of commission at the moment.” Peevils laughs. “If any of you think I’m bluffing, come visit the control room. I’ll be heading off to find more people to kill. Buh-bye!”

The intercom clicks off, and the clinic is silent for a beat.

(During the beat, Peevils revels.)

(During the beat, Yandere, in his room, freezes.)

(During the beat, panic takes hold of Ego Inc.)

“We can’t stay here,” Dr. Iplier says, “She might come here next, and none of us are in any condition to fight.”

“Where do we go?” Bim asks, voice shaking with fear.

“The library,” Google decides, “We could meet up with the Host, figure out how to stop Peevils. We _will_ figure out how to stop her. Also,” Google adds, “The room is huge. There’s many places to hide, if it comes to that.”

Bim nods. Dr. Iplier does as well, rather glad to have an excuse to check on the Host. He, Bim, and Google quickly file out of the clinic. Dr. Iplier and Bim do, anyway; Google hangs back, wanting to do something first. He looks around, finds a blanket folded on a hospital bed across the room. He quickly goes to it, picks it up, and uses it to cover Oliver’s body before catching up to the others at the door to the stairwell. The group begins their descent, closing the door behind them and moving as quietly and quickly as possible.

“Hey,” Dr. Iplier says as they go down the stairs, “Do either of you think any of Mark’s friends know what’s happening?”

Bim and Google pause to think.

“How would we know?” Bim asks, “Besides, most of Mark’s friends don’t really know us, at least not all of us. The only one who does is…”

“…Amy,” Google finishes. He looks over at Dr. Iplier. “Are you suggesting we contact her?”

“We can’t!” Bim cries, then lowers his voice, afraid of being heard outside the stairwell, “You know how Amy is. If we tell her what’s happening, she’ll come here, and we won’t be able to stop her. What if she gets hurt?”

“She has a right to know,” Dr. Iplier insists, “Mark _is_ her boyfriend. She’s either going to find out now or after this is over, and you know as well as I do that she’d prefer to know sooner rather than later.”

“I think it’s a bad idea,” Bim mutters nervously, wringing his hands, “Google, what about you? What do you think?”

“Well, the building _is_ on lockdown,” Google remind him, “Even if she comes here there’s a very low chance of her actually getting inside.” Bim sighs.

“Okay, fine, I’ve been outvoted,” he concedes. Dr. Iplier gives him a sad, grateful smile as he takes out his phone and dials Amy’s number.

“I’d put it on speaker, but it echoes in here,” Dr. Iplier says, “I’ll talk to her.”

Bim and Google nod, and Dr. Iplier hears Amy pick up.

“Hey, Doc!” Amy says, as cheerful and bright as always.

“Hello, Amy,” Dr. Iplier answers.

“Doctor, is something wrong?” Amy asks, confusion and concern in her tone, “You sound a little off.”

“Amy, I have bad news, so I’m just going to give it;” Dr. Iplier says, “Peevils possessed Mark, and she’s using him to kill us.”

“What??” Amy cries.

“Her goal is to use Mark’s fame to make your channel grow and make her more powerful,” Dr. Iplier continues, “And she doesn’t want us getting in her way.”

“But wait,” Amy interrupts, voice shaky, “Mark would never want you guys to die, so even if she’s using him to hurt you, you’ll just come back, right?”

“Not if…” Dr. Iplier braces himself for Amy’s response. “…Not if she kills him before he can get her out of his head.”

For a long moment, nothing but horrified silence comes over the line.

“Amy?” Dr. Iplier murmurs, “Please let me know you understand.”

“I’m coming over there.” Amy’s voice is shallow but steely with determination.

“You can’t,” Dr. Iplier says, “Peevils might hurt you, maybe even kill you. Besides, she put the building on lockdown. You can’t get in.”

“But you guys can’t get out.”

“Well, no,” Dr. Iplier answers slowly. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her about the lockdown.

“I’m not just gonna sit here and worry while this is happening to you guys, and to Mark,” Amy insists, “Peevils is _my_ figment, I have to take responsibility. I can’t let her hurt anyone.”

“Amy—” Dr. Iplier begins, but he’s quickly interrupted.

“No “buts.” I’m coming to help, and that’s that.”

“Amy—!” Dr. Iplier hears her hang up as he yells her name.

“She’s coming, isn’t she?” Bim asks.

“She’ll be safe,” Dr. Iplier says, more to himself than to Bim, “She can’t get in.”

“We’re on the ground floor,” Google points out. Sure enough, the trio now stand at the bottom of the stairwell, and the door to the lobby is before them. Google leads the way, opening the door and walking towards the library. Bim and Dr. Iplier follow.

They get to the library quickly, and close the oak doors behind them. The room is peaceful as always, and perfectly quiet.

Too quiet, Dr. Iplier thinks.

~~~

After giving her announcement, Peevils pauses to relish the power coming over her in waves, the pride, the insanity. She’s a far cry from the careful, scheming creature she was when the day started. The murders are eating her rationality, but she doesn’t care. She enjoys being unhinged. Was she a hypocrite for judging Dark’s penchant for drama? So what if she was? She’s having too much fun to care, too much fun imaging the other egos scurrying through the building like scared rabbits. She’s her own Jekyll and Hyde, if Jekyll were just as cruel as his secret shame, two sides of the same evil. This is who she is. _This is what she was made for._ She’s done suppressing her true nature.

Mark feels her twisted psyche, and it hurts his own brain, nearly as much as the words Peevils used earlier against Wilford. That headache will likely last all day, but to Peevils, it’s ignorable. To Mark, it’s yet another mental strain added to his beleaguered mind. He hasn’t made a peep since Peevils killed Ed Edgar, remaining silent throughout her announcement, even when she imitated his phrases. He’s already becoming numb, and there’s still so many egos to go.

Speaking of which, Peevils ought to get on that.

She decides to head for the elevator. She knows there could be a couple egos in the clinic, but if they’re still there, they’re no doubt prepared for her. After her struggle against Wilford, she would much rather hunt prey that isn’t so ready for a fight. But when the elevator doors open, that plan becomes a bust.

Of course it would be Silver Shepherd that has come to confront her. She almost intended it, her use of the word “supervillain” hadn’t been accidental. Some people are much easier to manipulate than others, and Silver is at the bottom of the scale.

“Stop right there!” he shouts, posing in a wide stance with one gloved hand on his hip and one pointing at Peevils’s face. The elevator doors almost close on his outstretched arm, but he momentarily breaks his pose to push a foot against one of them, forcing the doors to open again. Peevils raises an eyebrow. She could kill him right now, but she wants to watch him struggle a bit.

“It is I, Silver Shepherd!” Silver cries, “And I’m here to end your reign of terror, and tyranny, and terribleness!” He jumps into a fighting stance, fists up. “Put up your dukes, Peevils, I’m ready to take you on!”

Truly, there isn’t an ounce of fear in him. Peevils is almost impressed, but not enough to play along. She rolls her eyes and charges at Silver, effortlessly shoving him into the back wall of the elevator. The doors finally close, but Peevils pushes the elevator’s stop button on her way in, keeping it still. Despite having the same body Peevils does, Silver doesn’t seem to know how to use it. He paws and kicks ineffectually at her, as though he were in the midst of a catfight. Peevils chuckles.

“God, you’re pathetic.” She tilts her head as she looks at him. “How does it feel to know that you were made this way? A superhero that couldn’t save a treed cat. Mark must’ve been in a sadistic mood when he thought you up.”

_“That’s not true!”_ Mark shouts from inside his mind.

_“Nice of you to join us,”_ Peevils answers, recalling how long he’d stayed silent. Silver continues spouting empty platitudes about justice and defeating evil, and struggling against Peevils, but she holds him in place easily.

_“I didn’t make him the way he is to set him up to fail,”_ Mark insists, _“He’s one of the bravest people in this building, and one of the kindest. That’s what a hero is.”_

_“That’s a nice sentiment,”_ Peevils says, _“But it doesn’t help Silver any.”_ She decides it’s time to end this, but not before she makes Silver show his fear.

“Aren’t you _scared,_ Silver?” she asks him, voice practically purring, “Weren’t you listening when I talked about _killing_ other egos?” She closes one hand around Silver’s neck and, with the other, grips his chin, running her finger underneath. “Aren’t you afraid that you might be _next?_ ”

“A true hero never dies, just look at Superman.” For all his bravado, there’s a new note in Silver’s voice now, high-pitched and quiet. “And true heroes are never afraid.” He swings at her again, and again, but Peevils dodges easily each time. His kicks hit more often, but they’re weak. Compared to Wilford, grappling with Silver is like fighting a kitten.

“You’re no hero,” Peevils murmurs, like she’s trying to let him down easy, “The only enemy you fight is yourself.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Silver asks, “My nemesis—”

“Yes, yes, your nemesis,” Peevils interrupts, brushing her finger from beneath his chin and up the side of his face, “He looks like Mark, doesn’t he? Do you suppose he’s an ego, too?”

“I don’t…I…” Silver squirms, trying to get away from Peevils’s finger on his cheek. He’s getting more nervous now, uncertain of what her game is. There might be a part of him that knows, deep down, exactly what Peevils is talking about, exactly what she’s referring to. But to Silver, a hero is nothing without an adversary to defeat. His mind shields him from the truth, and the other egos allow it, for his sake. But Peevils will not.

“If your nemesis isn’t an ego, then who is he?” Peevils asks, her finger reaching the top of his head. Silver has nearly stopped struggling, practically paralyzed with fear. “Why don’t you show me?”

One finger on Silver’s head becomes five, which grip the edge of his morph suit behind his ear and pull it forward, unmasking him. Peevils turns him around, using one arm to hold him in a headlock, and one hand to grab at his chin again, but more harshly than before. She makes him stare at the shiny, reflective elevator wall. She makes him see himself clearly for the first time.

Turns out the headlock was hardly necessary. Silver immediately slackens in Peevils’s grip.

“I’m…” He speaks slowly, like he can’t believe his words are coming from the mouth of the man in the wall. “I’m still a hero, I’m…” His voice starts to shake. He hears his own heart pounding in his ears; it’s so loud he can hardly think. What thoughts he does have hammer themselves out to the frightened beating of his heart: _Is that me? Truly me? Who am I? Who have I. Been who is. My nem. Esis who. Am I here. To defeat? What is my. Purpose. Without. Someone. To fight. Against? What. Do. I. Ex. Ist. For? Have. I. Been. The. Vill. Ain. This. Whole. Time? Who. Is. Sil. Ver. Shep. Herd? I. Am. No. One._

Peevils grins. She hadn’t expected it to be this easy. She thought Silver might have come up with some excuse, some reason why he saw his nemesis’s face in the elevator, but he doesn’t even try. She wonders how he made it so long, if the illusion was so easy to break. She feels Mark’s heart twist up, feels his desire to reach out to Silver, to pull his morph suit back over his head and reassure him. Peevils, for her part, wonders if it would be crueler at this point to let him live. Alone and a failure, half-mad with the knowledge that Peevils has given him…it’s tempting. But if normal happy Silver is annoying (and he is, Peevils knows well), then upset Silver will be much worse. Better to end it now. She lets Silver go and takes her revolver from her waistband. Silver doesn’t move from where he stands, unable to tear his eyes away from his reflection. Peevils stays behind him, but sees the tears running down his face in the polished steel across from them. She cocks the gun and presses it to his temple.

“You were a never a hero,” she says, and pulls the trigger.

The gunshot echoes impossibly loudly in the small space of the elevator. Silver crumples to the ground, blood splatters the wall and forms a circle around his head. Mark moans.

_“You didn’t have to do all that to him,”_ he whimpers, voice barely a breath.

“No,” Peevils admits, “But I wanted to, and I had fun doing it, so I guess it was worth it.” She nudges Silver’s body with her foot. “He’s dead now anyway, it’s not like it matters.”

Mark disagrees, Peevils knows it without him having to say a word. He seems unable to speak more, curling up on himself within his mind. Already he’s losing himself to despair. Then again, Peevils supposes she _has_ killed quite a few people. But there’s plenty more to go.

She turns to the elevator buttons, remembers where she wanted to go. After spending so long sharing the second floor with some _very_ annoying egos, they’re all next on her hit list. But one of them is back in the control room, one is beneath her feet, so only the last one must be on the second floor. Still, she might as well head there. She presses the button, the elevator lurches down, and Mark is so quiet he’s nearly invisible.

(Five feet into the library, Dr. Iplier’s heart turns over and pain shoots up his chest. Now that he knows what it means, it hurts all the more. He pauses, puts a hand on his chest, face drawing up in anxiety. Bim and Google notice right away, and Bim gently puts a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. Dr. Iplier shakes his head, takes his hand away from his chest, and shrugs off Bim’s hand. He insists he’s fine, and the group presses forward into the library. But each of them wonder who they just lost.)

~~~

Yandereplier, who had suspected Bim wasn’t telling the whole truth earlier and was puzzling over what it meant, feels his heart turning over and dropping into his gut as Peevils makes her announcement. Something terrible, Dark had said. What could be more terrible than this? He runs for the stairs. He has to be sure. Peevils could be lying. What if she isn’t? He has to make sure…

The door to the control room is open, blocked from being closed by Ed Edgar’s body. Peevils is already gone (already being accosted by Silver in the elevator, already planning his end). Yandere steps over Ed to enter, and immediately sees Plus and Chrome, laying just as still. Though he isn’t either person Yandere has come here for, he can’t help but feel sadness to look at Chrome. He rather liked the android, even if (or because) the other android was the meanest tsundere Yandere had ever seen. But he only gives Chrome a few moments of his grief before he turns up his head to look at the security camera feed. He’d thought he’d have to fiddle with it to get it to show what he needed to see, but it’s already there, clear and horrific.

“Senpai _,_ ” Yandere murmurs, “How could this happen?”

Yandere thrives off blood and gore, and he knows that Dark is not dead forever, that before long he will be as good as new. But the sight of him dead still hurts his heart and turns his stomach. Dark is _everything_ to Yandere. That he would ever have to be hurt, much less killed, is torturous for Yandere to even imagine. Yandere may be a fairly young ego, but he knows what death is like for a figment that cannot die, how painful and crushing and eternal it is. How it turns one head over heels in a strange sort of purgatory, makes one senseless and nonexistent yet still half-aware, still mired in whatever pain ended one’s life. Yandere suddenly can’t bear to look at Dark’s body any longer, so he turns his head away. In the process, he catches another still form on a different screen.

Oh, right. Peevils did say _both_ reality-warpers, didn’t she?

Yandere sees Wilford Warfstache, the man who took Yandere under his wing and helped him when he was new, who cheered him on when he was happy and dried his tears when he was sad, who showed him what it meant to be a figment and how to get on Dark’s good side and the quickest way to kill with a katana, on the floor of his own studio in a pool of blood.

“Onii-san, _no_ ,” Yandere gasps. There’s a burn in his throat, and tears begin rolling down his cheeks.

Dark will come back. No matter what happens, Dark will come back. As upset as Yandere is that he’s dead for the moment, he will not be dead forever. Yandere can comfort himself with the knowledge that Dark, damaged as his body is, cannot be permanently killed by anyone, not even Mark.

But Wilford is not so lucky. Wilford is dead. He’s _dead_.

Yandere is sobbing, waves of grief crashing over him for both men, the two most important people in his life. Even as he cries, however, he can feel something inside his mind begin to take shape, something angry, something hungry.

_How dare she touch senpai. How dare she touch onii-san. She will pay. Make her pay. Find her. Rip her apart. Tear her open. Skin her. Cut off her fingers, one by one, and make her watch. Pull her intestines out through her throat. Break off her ribs and stick them in her eyes. Crack open her back, pull her lungs out behind her shoulders, watch them shiver and deflate. Stab her in the heart until there’s nothing left but blood. Make her scream until her last breath. Don’t let her get away with this. Show her what happens to people who mess with those you love._

“I’m going to destroy every trace of her,” Yandere mutters as his tears stop to make room for his mania, “I’m going to make her suffer.”

His eyes are as violent red as his hair by the time he leaves the control room to search for Peevils.

~~~

Google, Bim, and Dr. Iplier each split off into a different direction to look for the Host. They’re all still quiet, still walking slowly, but it’s not so much because of the threat of Peevils anymore. The library has a magical kind of softness to it. The candles are always burning, always half-melted. The light in the room is always dappled orange. The countless shelves look the same after a while, yet it’s impossible to get lost among them, and easy to find whatever book one is looking for. It’s a liminal space, but safer, kinder, somewhere gentle and peaceful to escape the world for a little while. But there’s something here, now; a stillness that wasn’t there before. Of course the Host isn’t at his typewriter, not at a time like this, but even allowing that, the place is too quiet. Breathless. Still beautiful, still warm, still inviting, but now with an edge; something hard, something lonely, something empty.

Dr. Iplier recognizes the feeling. He had been the one Dark sent to that old cabin in the woods to collect the Host’s things. He hadn’t been the Host quite yet, of course, but he was soon to be. Dr. Iplier remembers it well, the way it felt to be inside that cabin. How the light came in through the windows just so, creating a permanent twilight. The papers piled up on a desk, disorganized but lovely in their messiness, showing the life and creativity that existed there. Had existed. After all, there was a reason Dr. Iplier had come, and it wasn’t to visit. The Author and what had happened to him to force him away from the place stood over the cabin like a shadow, dampening the beauty and peacefulness of the space. Dr. Iplier had found himself in a hurry to get the Author’s things and get out.

He feels that now, wandering through the Host’s library; that same trepidation, that same strange anxiety. He can’t help but wonder if the others feel it, too, but they’re too far away from him for him to call out and ask. Bim is going left, Google right, and Dr. Iplier is walking up the center, looking for something, anything to confirm or assuage his suspicions.

It’s not what he sees, however, but what he smells as he approaches the center of the library: Rusty, rotten, familiar. He’s a doctor, after all. He’d have to be a pretty poor doctor (or a pretty good one, depending on one’s point of view) not to recognize the scent of stale blood.

“Oh no,” he gasps. He breaks into a run towards the smell, but part of him already knows what it means when blood is this old. Part of him remembers that he still doesn’t know who Peevils’s first victim was, before Wilford.

And that part of him is right, of course. He finally gets to the center, and there’s the Host, pale and slumped over his desk, surrounded by dull, half-congealed blood.

“ _No,_ ” he moans. Dr. Iplier is by the Host’s side in an instant, and he quickly finds what killed him: A small neat hole on his right temple, a big and messy one on his left. It was probably instantaneous, nearly painless.

But that doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Oh, god, Host,” he whispers, tears beginning to bubble up in his eyes. He curls himself around the Host, one arm around his shoulders, one hand tangled in his hair, head buried in his neck. Too cold. Too stiff. When Dr. Iplier thinks of the Host, he thinks of gentle hands, soft embraces, a soft but commanding voice, a creative spark that lights the both of them aflame. Is this all that’s left of that man? Dr. Iplier recalls the patients he couldn’t save, how their loved ones sometimes looked at them and refused to accept what was in front of them. How they’d insist that the body, cold and pale and too limp to be asleep, was not their loved one. It couldn’t be. Dr. Iplier had always thought it was denial or shock, but he understands, now. He understands, looking at the Host, how different a body is when the soul has left it. But he can’t deceive himself, he doesn’t fall into the trap that others have. He knows that this body is the Host. That this is all that exists of him now. Nothing could ever make him forget.

The library may be big, but it echoes. Bim and Google hear Dr. Iplier sobbing from where they are, and they understand. Bim is crying too by the time he reaches the center of the library, and Google is rigid with grief. No one is able to say anything for a while. No one knows _what_ to say. Bim wants to comfort the doctor but doesn’t know how, not with his own sadness still hammering hard in his chest. On some level he knows how it feels, what it’s like to lose the person one loves. But on another level he doesn’t, because Dr. Iplier and the Host have loved each other for longer than Bim has even known Oliver. So he cries for the Host alone, apart from the doctor. Google, meanwhile, is practically somewhere else, somehow more quiet and still than even the Host. He won’t cry, maybe he can’t anymore, but he’s frozen in the space before tears come, when the body locks up to prepare for release.

A long minute passes like this, with three egos, each in their own way, grieving for what’s been lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw you give yourself Emotions for a character you didn't really care that much about before writing about them ;w;
> 
> So, bad news is, I don't know when the next chapter will be up, at least not 100%. I work tomorrow, and on Thursday I'll be helping my family get ready for our vacation, and then Friday we're going on vacation. I'm not sure I'll be able to update before we leave, especially since I'm still in the middle of writing said chapter. When I do update, it'll probably be later in the day than usual, since, you know, vacation. I'll try to keep you guys posted on my Tumblr. Hope to give you the next chapter soon!


	7. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me a story,  
> Sing me a song,  
> Give me a thing  
> To keep my heart strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of lied last chapter, THIS is the one where things are calmer. Hope you guys appreciate it!

Peevils steps out of the elevator, tracking Silver’s blood onto the carpet as she walks. Before she can start looking for her next target, she hears the elevator close and rise behind her. Clearly, someone else is trying to use it. Peevils grins to herself. She puts an ear against the doors, listening to it go. She hears it stop. When it starts up again, she lifts her gun and fires at the outside buttons, and the panel underneath. Once, twice, and again, just to be sure. The panel sparks and pops, and Peevils hears a tremendous groan as the elevator screeches to a stop. She laughs at her own action and walks off to do what she came to this floor for. She figures she’ll come back to the elevator later, pry open the doors and kill whoever she trapped there.

(Because she walks away, she doesn’t hear the elevator’s occupant screaming with frustration and rage.)

She walks down the hallway, going past her own room to a door with tiny scratches up the doorframe from little creatures climbing. The scent of peanut butter wafts strong from behind it. Peevils tries the door and finds it locked. Of course it would be, not even King of the Squirrels would be dumb enough to forget to lock the door. Not that it matters; Peevils easily shoots a hole above the doorknob and reaches in and down, unlocking the door from the inside. She pushes the door open and steps inside to find a few squirrels sitting on King’s bed, chewing the blanket, and an open jar of peanut butter on the dresser. Peevils frowns. She walks to the closet, opens it, and is annoyed but not surprised to find nothing. She goes to the wall beside King’s bed, kneeling on it to look out the window. The squirrels chitter and scatter, running off into the room’s nooks and crannies. Outside the window are the upper boughs of a large tree, close enough to climb into. Thanks to the lockdown, the window is impossible to open, but there’s a chance King was out in the tree when she initiated it in the first place. Peevils peers into the tree’s thick leaves, but sees nothing. Peevils leans back and sits on the bed. She bends down to look underneath it, and finds nothing but a few squirrels staring back. Whether they were some of the squirrels on the bed or completely different ones, Peevils doesn’t know.

She stays seated on the bed, thinking. If King isn’t in his room, where else would he be? There’s plenty of places for him to hide; each floor has a lounge and a kitchen, and this particular floor has an arcade, a shooting range (specifically for Ed) and a movie theater, not to mention Ed and Silver’s bedrooms, and even her own. She’s certain King is still on this floor; those squirrels follow him everywhere, and their presence here proves he’s nearby. As she’s thinking about where to look first, she hears something. Faint rustling, not from outside in the tree, but inside, close to her. It’s muffled, almost imperceptible, but once she hears it, she can’t tune it out. She gets up from the bed and tries to follow the sound. She finds herself standing in front of King’s dresser, where she can hear well enough to make out an animal’s chatters. Upon looking at it more closely, she realizes that the top drawer is open a crack. She pulls it more fully open and looks inside.

Sitting in the drawer is a tiny nest made of an old sweater, holding a litter of baby squirrels. Several litters, more likely, considering how many babies there are. They squeak and squirm when they sense the light on them, and a mother squirrel watching over them angrily snaps at Peevils. She draws back, sneering at the creature, but doesn’t step away. She wonders if the nest was always there, in the quiet dark of the dresser drawer, or if King put it there earlier to hide the babies. Even if it didn’t work, Peevils is somewhat impressed that he tried.

_“King’s not as dumb as you think he is, you know,”_ Mark tells her, voice hoarse and warped from earlier tears.

_“Please, any moron would know better than to leave babies out in the open or sit in their room and wait to die,”_ Peevils scoffs, _“And I’ll find him before long, just wait.”_

She leaves King’s bedroom and decides to try the other bedrooms first. She doesn’t know herself if King would intrude in someone’s private space, even now, which is makes those rooms pretty decent places to hide. Outside Ed’s room, she smells it again, peanut butter. This room is unlocked, so she steps right in and is greeted with…another jar of peanut butter, and a few more squirrels. A search of the room’s spaces reveals nothing. It’s the same story in Silver’s room, and her own: Jars of peanut butter stinking up the place, and squirrels sitting around chewing on blankets and pillows, but no King. Pretty soon, her nose is desensitized to the smell of peanuts, leaving her unable to use the odor as a way to find King anymore. She grits her teeth in irritation, and Mark stifles a giggle.

_“What are you laughing for?”_ Peevils growls, _“Have you already forgotten what I’ve done?”_

His laughter dies off immediately, but he answers her evenly.

_“Of course not,”_ Mark says, _“And that’s why it’s nice to watch you struggle. Besides, I told you King was smart. He just doesn’t have the need to show it all the time.”_

_“I’m not struggling,”_ Peevils hisses, voice scaly and dangerous, _“And I don’t care if he turns out to be a fucking genius, he can’t hide from me forever.”_

Peevils squares her shoulders. If this is the game King wants to play, so be it.

~~~

As Peevils continues to search for King, the three egos in the library are quiet and somber, unsure of what to do next.

“Without Host,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, still curled around the blind man, “How can we stop Peevils?”

Like lightning, the answer comes to Google. He curses himself internally for not remembering sooner. After everything that’s happened, he’s becoming less and less like himself, less sharp, less objective. Maybe he was right before, maybe he truly can’t function without his brothers. He pushes the thought away and speaks up.

“Bim can stop her,” Google says in response to Dr. Iplier. Dr. Iplier lifts his head to look at Bim, and Bim in turn looks at Google, eyes wide.

“Huh?” he squeaks.

“I’m sure you remember that time Anti possessed Chrome,” Google responds, “And how you were able to pull Anti out.”

“How come I never heard about this?” Dr. Iplier asks, frowning now. It’s an unspoken rule that the egos go to Dr. Iplier when new powers spring up within them, or they discover a facet of their power that wasn’t there before. Though he’s trained in physical and mental health, he’s just as well-versed in metaphysical health, and has helped many of the egos figure out and sharpen their abilities. But Dr. Iplier knows for a fact he never saw Bim in his office to talk about this development. Bim at least has the decency to look ashamed, ducking his head and refusing to meet the other ego’s eyes.

“Because,” Bim says, voice shaky, “It’s so dangerous. I didn’t want to hurt anyone again, not after what happened on “Hire My Ass.” And I hurt Chrome when I took Anti out of his system. I _killed_ him,” he looks at Google, “It took you and the others a week to fix him. He was dead for a week. Even if it wasn’t permanent, it was still _death_.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to learn about my powers because I never wanted to use them again. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. If I use them to get Peevils out of Mark, I might kill him. And if Mark dies…” He lets out a shuddering sigh. “…we all do. We can’t risk it.”

“Do we have a choice?” asks Dr. Iplier, clearly still annoyed with Bim. “Between the three of us, you’re the only one who can pull her out of Mark. Neither Google or I have that kind of power.”

“If it helps,” Google adds, “Last time was…chaotic.” He pauses, remembering. “Oliver was crying, and Plus and I weren’t exactly collected. Do you think it’d be easier in a calmer environment?”

“I…maybe?” Bim answers, screwing up his face in thought. “It was kind of hard to concentrate with you guys freaking out. But…”

“Bim, there’s no other way,” Dr. Iplier interrupts, “The only other person who could potentially get her out of Mark’s head is Dark, and who knows when he’ll come back? Not to mention it might not work, since his powers aren’t built for that.” He sees the looks on Bim’s face, scared and apprehensive, and sighs, making his voice gentler. “I wish you’d come to me about this before. None of us deserve to be scared of our own strength, least of all you.” Bim turns red, but the doctor continues. “Bim, you’re the only one who can stop her. You can do it without hurting Mark, I’m sure of it.” He smiles. “If you can keep up with Wilford on a daily basis, then you can handle Peevils.”

Bim smiles, too, and for a moment is caught up in fond memories of working with Wilford. He thinks. He’s still deeply afraid and uncertain of his own abilities, and considering the situation, the atmosphere probably won’t be any less panicky than it was with Chrome. But he knows that Dr. Iplier’s right, that he’s the only one who even has a chance of taking Peevils out of Mark. If he refuses, then what becomes of the others? Of Wilford? Of _Oliver?_ Now is Bim’s time to shine. He finds he feels a little better, putting it like that.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling, “I’ll do my best. But we have to find her first.”

“We might as well start on this floor,” Google says, “Search it and then go up. She could be anywhere.”

“And we’re _not_ splitting up,” Dr. Iplier insists, “No matter what happens, we’re sticking together.”

The others nod, and the group leaves the library together. Well, mostly together, as Dr. Iplier lingers a last moment, running a hand through the Host’s hair. He can’t help but wonder if he could’ve foreseen this, all of this, if he’d just looked at the other egos’s times of death yesterday. Would they have changed to reflect Peevils’s plan before she enacted it? He has no way of knowing now, and it hurts him as much as those cutting pains in his chest from each ego’s death.

“I love you,” he whispers to the Host, “And I’m sorry.”

He then catches up to the others, and they exit the library, closing the doors behind them.

Before they can start looking around, though, they hear something. Rather, Google hears something; it’s too far away for Bim and Dr. Iplier’s ears to detect. He hears two somethings in fact, two familiar voices, neither of which are Mark.

“I don’t think Peevils is here,” Google says, “But someone is.”

He walks off in the direction of the voices, and Bim and Dr. Iplier look at each other, uncertain. But they trust Google’s heightened senses, and they follow him. Before long, they hear the voices too, and soon they come upon a pair of egos sitting on the floor. One is curled up in an anxious ball, the other clearly trying to reassure. A pair of eyes shaded with sunglasses turns to look at the group.

“Sah, dudes,” says Bingiplier, before turning back to MarkBop, “Bop, it’s cool, it’s not just us here, see? We’ll be golden, bro, don’t worry.”

Bop answers with a flurry of Simlish, and even the egos who can’t understand him can see how frightened he is, how deeply Peevils’s announcement has scared him.

“Are you guys okay?” Dr. Iplier asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bing answers, “Just a bit freaked out. Or, uh, a lot freaked out.” He looks back at Bop. “Sheesh, I haven’t seen him like this since…” He doesn’t finish, doesn’t want to.

Dr. Iplier knows what Bing is thinking of, and he agrees. He wishes he had something on him, a sedative or some other medicine to help calm Bop down. Even without examining him closely the doctor can see that Bop is hyperventilating, that his pupils are so huge there’s hardly any brown left in his eyes, and that sweat is damp on his brow. Bing’s hands are on his friend’s shoulders, gently rubbing up and down his arms in an attempt to ground him, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

“You two shouldn’t be out in the open like this,” Google says, “Not with Peevils running around still.”

At the mention of Peevils, Bop shudders with terror, and lets loose another long outburst of Simlish. Bing turns to glare at Google.

“Um, duh, Googs, you think I’m a moron?” Bing asks, irritated.

“Yes.” Google responds without missing a beat. He’s hated Bing since the other ego was created, and Bing has hated him right back. To Google, Bing is wholly unnecessary. Everyone knows that Google is and always will be a better search engine, and more importantly, Google will always be a better android. Bing has Google’s strength and durability but none of the grace, all his intelligence but none of the foresight or common sense to use it. Not to mention the ridiculous way he talks. Even at a time like this, Google can’t bring himself to play nice. He wonders how Oliver can stand him.

Could. How Oliver could stand him. Maybe that’s why he’s so bitter.

“ _Fahhhhk_ you, dude,” Bing mutters to Google, turning back to Bop. “Goog’s a bitch, don’t listen to him,” he says to his friend. Bop doesn’t uncurl himself or relax, but he does let out a tiny smile and an almost inaudible giggle. Google grumbles but doesn’t comment.

“Maybe you should come with us,” Bim says to Bing, “There’s strength in numbers, and all that. And Bop might feel safer with more of us around him.”

“Maybe,” says Bing, still rubbing Bop’s shoulders, “It’d be even better if we could get outta here. I already tried the front doors, but I couldn’t get ‘em to open.” He points towards the lobby, and the others can see something on the ground before the doors, something skinny.

“What’s that?” Bim asks.

“My skateboard,” answers Bing, “I tried to smash the glass, but I just smashed my board.”

Google rolls his eyes. Bing glares at him again, but quickly turns away as Bop says something to him, a question, too low for Google to make out. Bing looks back to Google, and seems uncertain of how to say what he wants to say. Google raises an eyebrow.

“Look, Googs,” Bing begins, reluctant, “I don’t like talkin’ to you either, but Bop wants to know, and well, I do too, if what Peevils said earlier was true.” He looks down. “About the other Googles.”

Ah. Google’s expression hardens.

“Yes.” His voice is biting. “She killed them. Thanks for bringing it up.”

Bing and Bop both wince, and Google knows he’s not being fair, but it hurts him to remember what he’s lost, what Peevils has taken from him.

“Ollie,” Bop whimpers, but Bing is quick to reassure him.

“Bop, hey, hey,” he says, squeezing his friend’s shoulders, “It’ll be okay, alright? All we gotta do is get Peevils outta Mark’s brain, and he’ll just poof everyone back, including Ollie.” He pauses. “Well, _we_ can’t get her outta Mark’s brain, but someone can.” He turns to the others. “Someone can, right?”

“You aren’t very good at this, are you?” Google sneers, and Dr. Iplier elbows his side.

“Yeah,” Bim says, trying to ignore Google and Dr. Iplier glaring daggers at each other beside him, “I can! Or at least, I’m going to try. I did something similar for Chrome a while back.”

“Oh yeah, Oliver told us about it,” Bing says. He gives Bim his classic lopsided grin. “He was way impressed, bruh. He said it was totally sick.”

“Really?” Bim asks, voice wistful.

“Yeah, really,” Bing replies, grin softening to something more gentle. He gives that smile to Bop as well, and squeezes his shoulders. “Hear that, Bop? Bim’s gonna wreck Peevils’s _shit_. We’ll be cool if we stick with him.”

Though listening to the conversation happening around him seems to have calmed Bop some, he still speaks in Simlish to Bing, sounding concerned. Bing furrows his brows, and Google sighs.

“Guess I hadn’t thought of that,” Bing says.

“What?” asks Dr. Iplier.

“Well, if you guys are gonna go stop Peevils,” Bing says, “Then if we go with you, that means we’re gonna find Peevils. And Bop is not really about that.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Google growls, “We don’t have time for this. You’re both dead for certain if you don’t come with us.”

“Fuck off,” Bing mutters back, “Just lemme calm Bop down, and—”

“You’ve been trying to calm him down for how long, now?” Google snaps. He shakes his head and moves forward. “Let’s just go already, he can calm down while we’re walking.”

“Google!” Bim gasps, shocked.

“Google,” Dr. Iplier says, voice low in warning.

“Hey,” Bing says cautiously, “What are you—”

Google approaches Bing and Bop. Bop looks up at Google, confusion and worry in his eyes, and Bing jumps up, grabbing Google’s arm.

“If you’re gonna do what I think you’re gonna do, you better fucking not,” he growls, but Google shakes him off so forcefully he’s thrown back several feet, stumbling and landing on his back. Bop yelps in panic.

“ _Google,_ ” Dr. Iplier tries again, “Don’t.”

But Google doesn’t listen, reaching down and grabbing Bop by the arm anyway, pulling him up.

“We’re going” is what he intends to say, but he doesn’t get the chance. As soon as his hand closes around Bop’s arm, Bop screams. It’s not a normal scream. It’s high-pitched, ringing, so loud it rattles the glass panes of the lobby windows and doors. Everyone in the building hears it, including Peevils, who is forced to pause her search for King to grit her teeth and cover her ears, and including the person Peevils trapped in the elevator, who hears the scream over the groaning of the already-damaged machine. The egos next to Bop, however, are affected the worst. Google and Bing start to glitch, their sensitive hardware overwhelmed by the frequency. Bim and Dr. Iplier clap their hands over their ears, their own screams of pain layering under Bop’s.

Though Bing and Dr. Iplier weren’t expecting this, they knew Bop would react to being grabbed by Google. They each remember something that happened a long time ago, and the effect it had on Bop.

Bing remembers especially well. It was back when he was brand new, and had yet to develop a healthy fear of Dark. But already he had befriended Bop, and already he was getting him involved in his ideas, for better or worse. When Bing had the idea to prank Dark, Bop had tried to dissuade him, but Bing was too caught up in it. Bop ended up relenting, going along with the plan and helping him set it up. Late one night when they knew Dark was asleep, they snuck into his office and hid a tiny speaker, the size of Bing’s pinky finger, there. The next day, they came back, and Bing connected his phone’s bluetooth to the speaker, playing the mix Bop had helped him create. The songs on it were silly, stupid, insulting, a playlist full of music Dark was sure to hate. Bing and Bop heard the music begin from outside the door, and soon heard Dark’s roar of frustration over it as he searched in vain for its source. Bing had stifled laughter as Dark hunted for the speaker. Even Bop had to admit it was amusing, grinning wide at the results of the prank.

They hadn’t laughed for long, though. It only took about a song and a half for Dark to find the speaker and crush it between his fingers, a much shorter time than Bing and Bop thought it would take. They didn’t have time to try and run before Dark slammed open his office door, the picture of rage. He wanted to punish them, of course. And it had to be severe, to get it through Bing’s head that he wasn’t to be messed with. But Dark was nothing if not fair, so whatever he did to Bing, he had to do to Bop, too.

So he closed one hand around Bing’s right arm, and the other around Bop’s left. As he yanked them up, he sent a wave of his aura down their arms, snapping the bone beneath his fingers. The pair was only screaming for a moment before they found themselves in Dark’s inky, angry void.

Alone.

Dark had put them in opposite ends of the nearly endless dimension, leaving each ego to his own devices. Bing and Bop had spent their first few hours there wandering, running, calling out to each other. But not even Bing’s artificially enhanced hearing nor Bop’s better-than-average human hearing could help the two find each other. It was one thing for Bing, who had to keep him company every video, photo, song and podcast he’d ever downloaded into his memory bank. When his throat became too hoarse to shout for Bop, he used the entertainment he had to block out the whispers of the void, while still keeping an ear and an eye out for him. Though he was worried sick over Bop and in pain from his broken arm, he didn’t suffer nearly as bad as the other ego.

Bop didn’t have anything on him to distract himself with, and though his memory of songs was (and is) impeccable, he had no means to play them. He tried to sing to himself at first, hoping to comfort himself and potentially help Bing hear him, but the deep darkness of the void soon scared him into silence. Every sound he made was echoed and reverberated back to him in a low whisper, something at just the right pitch to make Bop constantly look over his shoulder. Even when the void was perfectly silent, it still rumbled, just on the edge of Bop’s awareness. It was too cold there, the freezing air bit into Bop’s skin, made his broken arm hurt all the more. It was too dark, so dark there were no shadows, and it was hard for Bop to see his own limbs beneath him, hard to tell by sight if he even still existed there. It was deathly quiet but all too loud, filled with endless white noise. It was impossibly lonely, yet _something_ had to be making those strange not-sounds, didn’t it? If not a creature or a person, then the void itself was watching Bop closely, waiting to see what he did. And all Bop could do was sit, and panic, and cry.

Dark kept them there for twenty-four hours, despite half of Ego Inc. attempting to strongarm him into letting them out sooner. None of them can travel to Dark’s void without Dark facilitating it, not even Wilford, so they’d had no choice but to wait. In order to meet Bing and Bop when they were released (and partially in order to bother Dark), Oliver and Dr. Iplier waited outside Dark’s office until the twenty-four hours was up, and Dark spirited the pair back to earth. Bing was certainly shaken, but Bop was a shadow of himself: Half-mad, paranoid, and deeply afraid still, curled up on the floor and not responding to anyone’s words. Bing had insisted on going with Bop to the clinic, and as Oliver repaired him, he watched Dr. Iplier treat Bop’s arm and try to bring him back to himself.

It was another day before Bop spoke again. It took that long for the whispers to fade from his mind, for the jerky shadows in the corners of his eyes to disappear, for the feeling of floating over a trench in the ocean to fade away. It probably hadn’t helped that Dr. Iplier had needed to rebreak his arm to set it properly, either. Bop had been petrified, locked inside himself, and even the possibility of recovery was uncertain. Bing, for his part, was wrought with guilt, afraid that his stupid thoughtless prank had rendered Bop silent forever, taking away his ability to sing, the thing he treasured most. But Bop did recover, he did heal and talk and sing, and Bing couldn’t have been more relieved, and more grateful, and more sorry. Bop forgave him, of course. He knew Bing hadn’t meant for something so awful to happen, and he’d known he could’ve refused to participate in Bing’s prank without earning any hard feelings. Besides, Bing had been trapped there, too, and Bop knew that for all his friend’s swagger and bravado, he was young, younger even than himself, and no doubt suffered enough for his mistake.

Even after things seemed to go back to normal, it became clear that something had changed in Bop. Bing was trying to get him to watch his latest skateboard trick, but Bop wanted to finish writing the song he was in the middle of. Bing didn’t take no for an answer and grabbed Bop’s arm to tug him outside. It was something the pair did to each other often; usually Bing would pull Bop along, but sometimes Bop would grab Bing and tug him to his studio to show him something he was working on. But this time, when Bing pulled Bop’s arm, the other man had gone rigid, eyes wide and lips pressed tight together. Bing had let go immediately, alarmed, and asked Bop what was wrong to no avail. Bop had gone silent. Again. Bing was so terrified he’d called Dr. Iplier, who’d came to Bop’s studio to talk to him, bring him out of it. And Bing watched, observing what words Bop responded to, what kinds of touches he accepted as comfort, and burned them into his memory bank, suspecting that he might need them later.

“He’s associated being grabbed by the arm with what Dark did to him,” Dr. Iplier told Bing after he’d calmed Bop down, “He’ll be okay, just don’t grab him like that again.”

And Bing hadn’t. He vowed that he never would, and he stuck to it, and even now, when Bop would be much safer inside a room than out in a hallway, Bing will not grab him.

Google, though, doesn’t know. He knows what Dark did to Bop, of course, they all do, but he doesn’t know how it affected him. And why would he? Bop doesn’t even want to think about it enough to talk about it, and Bing doesn’t want to tell the world his friend’s secrets.

But in light of Bop’s scream ringing out in the air, sharp and painful, perhaps someone ought to have told long ago.

After a long moment, Google gets his glitching under control enough to release Bop’s arm, and just like that, the scream ends. Bop falls back down and scrambles away from Google, eyes round with terror and glazed over like his mind is somewhere else (it is somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere lonely, somewhere quiet and cold and dangerous). Bim and Dr. Iplier are stunned, ears still ringing. Bim whimpers a little as he feels drops of blood fall out of his right ear.

Google stands in place, frozen, systems whirring to process what’s happened. Then, in the next moment, his head has snapped to the side, and there’s pain in his jaw. He turns his head forward to see Bing, fist still raised, eyes blazing orange through his shades, bright with hate.

“I _fucking_ told you,” he snarls, “And if you _ever_ touch Bop again, I’m going to rip your core right out of your stupid fucking chest.”

Google blinks. He’s never seen Bing so enraged, or so serious. But he’s quickly filled with anger of his own. He raises a fist in return.

“You—” Google is cut off by Dr. Iplier snatching his wrist.

“Save it,” he says, voice serious yet tired, “You deserved that and you know it.”

Google’s eyes glow electric blue. Bim watches off to the side, afraid he’s about to witness a fight. But then a sound pierces the air, something quiet and soft and sad. It’s Bop, unable to shake off the memories of Dark’s void, beginning to cry.

The glow in Bing’s eyes fades immediately, and he turns away from Google in time to see Bop curl back into a trembling ball, and see tears start rolling down his cheeks.

“Oh, no, _Bop,_ ” Bing gasps, before running to his friend and kneeling down to him. He pulls him into a gentle hug, keeping his hands feather-light. He wraps one arm around him, letting his hand rest on Bop’s side, and rubs circles in his back with his other hand.

“Shhh, Bop, shhhhh…” he murmurs as Bop sobs, “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m right here, I’ve got you, shhhhh…”

Bim and Dr. Iplier feel their hearts twist at Bop’s sadness, and Google feels a wave of guilt wash over him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, whether to Bop or to Bing he doesn’t know. In any case, both ignore him.

It quickly becomes apparent that Bing’s words aren’t doing much to soothe Bop, and Bop hardly seems aware that he’s being spoken to. Bing, in turn, seems to realize this, and his face draws with concern, bordering on panic. Dr. Iplier is about to intervene when Bing’s face changes, like he’s had an idea.

“Shoot,” he says, “Why didn’t I think of this earlier…?”

Google holds back an eye-roll.

“Bop,” Bing whispers, kind and gentle, “Do you remember the song you showed me the other day?”

Bop, though still weeping, manages a nod. Bing smiles.

“Good, why don’t we listen to it together?” he asks.

Bop nods again, and the other three egos find themselves watching closely, deeply intrigued.

After a moment, music begins to waft into the air. It’s coming from Bing’s built-in speakers, at a volume low enough to keep from hurting Bop’s sensitive ears. There’s the easy strum of guitar, the bounce of drums, the gentle wobble of synths. The tune is playful but calming, bright and cheerful but gentle. When the lyrics start, they’re sung soft and slow, nearly under the music, and Bing sings along just as quiet:

_“They were sitting, they were sitting on the strawberry swing...Every moment was so precious…”_

His voice doesn’t have Bop’s technique or control, but it’s pleasant all the same, earnest and tender. Bop reacts immediately, lifting his head to meet Bing’s eyes through the android’s shades. He’s still crying, but he’s not shaking quite so bad.

_“They were sitting, they were talking on the strawberry swing…Everybody was for fighting, wouldn’t wanna waste a thing…”_

Bim, Dr. Iplier and Google begin to feel awkward standing apart, like they’re watching something meant to be private, but they’re just as entranced by the song as Bop is. As the music plays and Bing sings along, Bop’s sobs even out, and he starts to regain control of his breathing. His eyes are no longer clouded with awful memories.

_“Cold, cold water, bring me ‘round, now my feet won’t touch the ground…”_

Bop closes his eyes, feeling the song settle over him like a warm blanket. The last of his tears squeeze themselves out of his eyes.

_“Cold, cold water, what ya say?”_

Bop begins to uncurl himself and sway to the beat. Bing smiles through his singing and gives Bop’s shoulders a squeeze.

_“When it’s such…”_

“…it’s such a perfect day.” Bop finishes the chorus, not quite singing and not quite speaking, but with a voice as clear and beautiful as ever. Bing beams at him and lets the music slowly fade from his speakers.

“You feel better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bop answers, giving a small smile, “Thanks, Bing.”

“Anything for my best bro!” Bing laughs, wrapping Bop up in a bear hug. Bop giggles and hugs back, finally feeling secure again.

The other egos are relieved to see Bop back to normal, and find themselves exhaling breaths they didn’t know were stuck within them.

“Glad you’re alright, Bop,” Dr. Iplier says, approaching the pair still sitting on the ground. Bop looks up at the doctor, and his cheeks turn pink as he remembers how many people saw him panicking.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, standing up, “I mean I’m still not, like, great, but I feel mostly okay.”

“Since you do,” Bing says, getting up as well, “Why don’t we take Bim up on his offer from earlier?”

“I don’t know…” Bop answers, shifting uncomfortably, “I mean, I’m really not into the idea of running into Peevils.” His chest constricts just thinking about it, and he has to take a breath to steady himself. “Besides, I’m not sure, I wanna, you know, hang out with Google, at the moment…” His voice gets quieter with every pause, and he rubs his arm, the place where Google grabbed him.

“Dude, I totally hear ya,” Bing replies, a comforting note in his voice, “Peevils is freaky and Googs is only a bit less freaky.”

“So, you’re staying here?” Bim asks worriedly as he approaches them, “What if she comes down here before we find her?”

“We’ll hide.” Bing shrugs. “Bop’s studio is sound-proof, we can hole up there if we gotta.”

“You’ll be sitting ducks,” Google says, joining the conversation but staying where he is, apart from the rest, “I’m sorry about before, but you two are definitely going to die if you stay here.”

“Look, Googs,” Bing says, frowning, “I’m an android, too; I’m as tough as you are. And Bop’s got his cool new screamy thing, so between the two of us, we can take care of ourselves. Besides, I’m not forcing Bop into anything, especially not after _somebody_ went and manhandled him.”

“Fine then,” mutters Google, “It’s only your _life._ ”

“Google, I swear to god,” Dr. Iplier warns.

“I know—I know it’s a bad idea not to go,” Bop stammers, “But I just, I’m…I’m scared, and it’s stupid, but I can’t—I’m sorry…”

“Bop, dude, it’s cool,” Bing says quickly, reassuring his friend before he can panic again, “Like I said, we’ll hang out in your studio and wait her out. She’ll probably just get bored and leave if she can’t find us. And if all else fails, I’ll beat her up.”

Bim and Dr. Iplier look at each other. Neither of them want to leave the pair to their own devices (and neither does Google, but at this point, he’s less willing to argue), but they know they won’t be able to convince them to come along. Even though Bing is willing, they know without having to ask that Bing won’t go anywhere without Bop. Dr. Iplier looks above the pair’s heads, looks at their times of death. They’re fluctuating by the second, changing by minutes at a time, but both are written in blue. Nothing is set for them yet, even with leaving them alone on the table.

“Alright,” Dr. Iplier sighs, “Just be careful. Both of you.”

“Dude, careful is my middle name!” Bing says, giving a lopsided grin and a thumbs up. Bop simply nods.

“Sure it is,” Bim says, grinning back. “But seriously,” he adds, “Stay safe. We’ll meet up with you after this is over.”

“Sounds rad,” Bing replies, “Catch you on the flipside, dudes!”

Bop waves goodbye, and the group leaves, hearing Bing and Bop’s footsteps retreating towards the studio.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Bim mutters as they walk.

“So do I,” Dr. Iplier responds, “But we can’t force them to go anywhere. Their times weren’t set, at least; they still have a chance.”

“I can’t believe Bing,” Google grumbles, “Putting Bop in danger just to coddle him. And did you hear him just now? He doesn’t even have the decency to be afraid.”

“Are you kidding?” Dr. Iplier asks, “Bing was terrified. He’s as scared of Peevils as Bop is. Maybe he _is_ being too indulgent to Bop, but after your little episode, can you blame him?”

“How can you tell Bing is so scared?” Google mutters, bristling at Dr. Iplier’s comments.

“I’m a doctor,” he says with a tired grin, “I know what’s best, and I know more than you think.” The doctor also knows, but chooses not to say, that Google is scared, too. Why else would he be so adamant that Bing and Bop come with them? Why else had he been so stubborn and forceful? Google may not like Bing, but he certainly doesn’t wish death upon him. It doesn’t excuse Google’s behavior, but Dr. Iplier’s been a doctor long enough to know that the road to hell, whatever hell may be, is often paved with good intentions.

Bim giggles at Dr. Iplier’s words, and Google sighs, and the group walks back to the stairwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love...Bing and Bop......so much.............
> 
> Also, a chapter where no one dies! Who knew it was possible? Don't get too used to this, y'all.
> 
> Also also, the song Bing uses to calm Bop down is "Strawberry Swing" by Coldplay, and it's one of the most relaxing songs ever created. Like, literally and scientifically. Give it a listen, it's really nice, plus the music video has some really cool stop-motion.
> 
> I have absolutely no clue when the next chapter will be up, unfortunately. I didn't originally have this whole bit with Bing and Bop planned, so some stuff has to get shifted around so I don't write myself into a hole. I may have already written myself into a hole, but gosh dangit, I'll do my best with it. I also have an idea for ANOTHER multi-chapter egos thing that I already started writing. Not to mention I'm still on vacation ;w; I promise this won't end up in WIP hell, though. I'll try to keep you guys posted on Tumblr. So, see you when I see you, I suppose!


	8. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much are you willing to give for those you love?
> 
> Will it be enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I added a couple tags. My bad on that one, I'd totally forgotten about them until now. There's no body horror in this chapter, I just wanted to add it before I forgot again. There is animal death, though. I can already hear y'all whispering "oh no" under your breath. That annoying moment when your trigger warnings are spoilery ._.
> 
> W/e, I'm glad to finally be posting this, and I hope you're happy to read it!

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea for Yandereplier to take the elevator.

He’s aware of that even before it lurches to a stop too soon, trapping him between floors. But he’s always been too impulsive for his own good, launching into things without a second thought. He hadn’t had a clue where Peevils would go next, and the elevator had seemed like a good place to start. And it had been: Finding Silver there, and recalling Ed Edgar in the doorway of the control room, Yandere could guess where Peevils planned to go next. But then, of course, the elevator had broken, and Yandere is sure that Peevils was the cause.

At first, he can’t do much but scream and curse, venomous thoughts of what he plans for Peevils once he gets his hands on her swirling through his mind. He kicks and bangs on the elevator doors in his anger, like he can break them open with brute strength alone. But they refuse to open, no matter how hard he hits, and he gets nothing but sore fists for his trouble. It’s then that he’s forced to take a moment to breathe, let the red fade from his vision.

He remembers something that happened a long time ago, when he’d gotten himself killed trying to stop a group of humans from hurting Dark. While Dark had gotten out alive, he’d still been injured, and Yandere had felt like a failure after he’d woken up in the clinic. But it was while he was still recovering, laying half-asleep there and kept half-awake by his self-deprecating thoughts, that he felt he heard something. He didn’t see Dark, or even feel him there, but he remembers his voice, whispering something to him:

“If you’re going to be reckless, then at least be strong enough to get yourself out of trouble.”

Yandere, impulsive as he is, has tried to abide by that ever since. He thinks. Obviously, beating on the elevator doors is useless; he’ll have to open them some other way. He looks at the elevator’s ceiling, but he can’t tell how to remove the lights by sight alone. He could try it, maybe use his katana to pry the panel off, but who knows what would happen? He could electrocute himself, and if he breaks the light before he’s finished, he’ll be in total darkness. That option’s no good. Perhaps his katana can pry the doors open? Yandere isn’t certain. He loves his sword, and he couldn’t ask for a better weapon, but this is certainly not what his katana was designed for. He takes it out, looks up the length of the blade, turns it around, watching it glint in the elevator lights. He tests it out, pressing the katana into the crack between the doors. There’s the slightest bit of give, and Yandere knows that if he works at it, he can open the doors with this sword. But he has to go slow and be careful, or else his sword could snap from the pressure.

If there are two things Yandere cannot do, they are “slow” and “careful.” But he has to try. For Dark. For Wilford. For Chrome.

He’s barely gotten the doors a centimeter apart when a high-pitched ringing pierces the air, like the sound Dark’s aura makes but louder, sharper. Yandere drops his katana to cover his ears. His brain feels as if it’s being skewered by the soundwaves coming through his fingers into both ears, but he can hear something even worse beneath them: The creaking of the elevator. When the sound finally ends, the elevator continues to make strange sound for several moments before lurching down about a foot.

Yandere curses. He has to be even more careful now; whatever that sound was clearly caused further damage to the elevator. He’s more frustrated than ever before, but he forces himself to take a breath, pick up his katana from the ground, and continue the slow work of opening the elevator doors.

~~~

Peevils is in the second-floor kitchen and still looking for King of the Squirrels when the strange, keening sound rings out, and she’s forced to stop and cover her ears against it. She hears other sounds, though, just beneath it: The sound of Mark crying out from inside his mind, the frightened chattering of dozens of squirrels, and someone else shouting in pain, unable to keep quiet.

Once the painful sound ends, she grins. She looks around herself in the kitchen, but already King seems to have scurried off somewhere else. This has been his infuriating game; she’s looked in every room by now, but he doesn’t stay in one place for long. Several times Peevils has narrowly avoided something heavy falling on her head; a coffee-maker, a thick book, a glass bottle from the shooting range. But every time she looks up, King’s already gone. How he can stay on the ceiling like that is a mystery to her (and to Mark, as she discovers from prying into his memories of the ego). No doubt King wants to knock her out, perhaps to be able to imprison her somewhere until someone else can get her to leave Mark’s body.

But the game seems to have changed now, as the squirrels, disoriented and likely in pain from the strange noise, all dart in a single direction. Peevils is certain that they’re seeking King out, either to comfort him or be comforted. How amusing that the subjects he wishes so dearly to protect will be his undoing. She follows the creatures out of the kitchen and into the hallway, and she decides to act while she knows he’s in earshot.

“I know you’re here, King,” she says, walking behind a group of squirrels, “You can’t hide from me forever.”

No response, and even when Peevils finds the spot where the squirrels are congregating, in the hallway next to a stairwell, she still cannot find him. Perhaps he’s in the stairwell? Peevils knows that he’ll bolt the instant he hears her put a hand on the door, and quite frankly, she’s tired of this game. But she knows just how to get a rise out of him, and now that she knows where he is and that he can hear her, she’s going to do it.

“You know, King,” she says casually, “I came to your room when I first got here. I just so happened to look in your dresser. I admit, those babies are pretty cute.” She cocks her revolver, letting the sound hang in the air. “It sure would be a shame if they got hurt.”

“Wait!”

Just like that, the door to the stairwell opens, and there’s King, face drawn with panic. Peevils smiles as she feels Mark’s jolt of fear, his wave of horrid nostalgia looking at his own much younger face and knowing what’s about to become of it.

“Don’t hurt them,” King is saying, bravely stepping forward, feet expertly avoiding the tails of the squirrels clamoring around him, “Whatever happens to me, don’t hurt the babies. Please.”

Peevils raises an eyebrow, surprised at how well he’s keeping his cool. He’s afraid, she can see it in his sweaty brow and dilated pupils, but he speaks evenly, and he levels a calm stare at Peevils. Perhaps he’s putting on a brave face for his subjects, who chitter nervously around him, no doubt sensing that something bad is brewing.

“You’ll give yourself up? Just like that?” Peevils asks. She knows she shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but she can’t help it. King purses his lips, showing his nerves, but lifts his chin with regality at the same time.

“For my subjects, I’d do anything.” There’s something like pride, but softer, in his tone. “Besides, even if I can’t stop you, someone will. If you kill me, I’ll come back. My squirrels won’t.”

“That’s optimistic of you,” Peevils replies wryly, “Assuming someone will stop me. And assuming that there’s an “if” I’m going to kill you. There is no “if.”” She raises the gun. “And, even further, assuming I’m going to leave those stupid animals alone just because you asked nicely.” King flinches but doesn’t break.

“Why would you?” He asks, with only the slightest tremor in his voice. “No one cares about them but me. If I’m gone, killing them doesn’t get you anything.”

Well, he has a point. And Peevils was only able to take so much ammunition with her from Wilford’s room, she doesn’t wish to waste too many bullets. She shrugs.

“Fair enough,” she says, “It’s just too bad there’ll be no one to take care of them anymore.”

“Someone’s going to stop you,” King insists, even as tears fill his eyes, “You won’t get away with this.”

Peevils recalls how Mark had said the same thing earlier today, and so does Mark. He recognizes so well that endless optimism in the face of certain failure, that refusal to lay down and give in to sadness. It’s strange seeing it from the other side, seeing the same feelings that sustained him when he was young and new to YouTube in another version of himself, one locked in another time.

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” Peevils laughs.

She fires into King’s forehead and he drops, nearly crushing a few unwary squirrels. The creatures panic, crawling over King’s back and rubbing along the side of his face even as blood pools around his head. Mark dry heaves inside his own mind. Peevils rolls her eyes at him.

“So sentimental,” she mutters, “Just because he looks like you when you were younger doesn’t make him special.”

Mark is too shaken to argue with her, and instead cries silently, trying to shut out her words.

All at once, Peevils sees the squirrels surrounding King’s body turn towards her, casting the stare of a hundred beady eyes onto her own. It seems they’re smart enough to put two and two together, and realize why their beloved king won’t respond to their nudges and chatters. Several squirrels run towards Peevils, ready to attack.

“Seriously?” she mutters, firing at one, then another, then another. The force of the bullets is so strong that their tiny bodies practically explode, their upper halves rendered into lumps of gore that spray towards the squirrels hanging back. Were it possible for Mark to vomit where he is, locked inside his mind, he would be doing so now. The other squirrels, some of which were preparing to charge Peevils, shrink back and cower before scattering. They have to go past Peevils to get anywhere else, of course, since the stairwell door is shut, so they scramble up the wall, scuttling past Peevils before dropping back to the floor to dash away. Peevils doesn’t bother chasing them, instead reloading her gun as they scurry past in a wave of fluffy brown.

“How troublesome,” she sighs as she finishes reloading the weapon, “Thank god that’s over with.”

Now, of course, she has to decide who’s next, but it doesn’t take her long to remember that the Host isn’t the only person who rooms on the first floor. It’ll be easy, she thinks, much easier than chasing after King just now. And she’s already right next to the stairwell. She steps over King’s body and begins her descent, closing the door behind her.

(But the building is wide, not just tall, so of course there are two stairwells, each on opposite sides. Peevils goes down the east stair as Dr. Iplier, Bim, and Google go up the west one. Dr. Iplier’s body has recovered from the jolt of pain, but he wonders who it was that was killed this time, as do Bim and Google. The three find themselves moving a little faster.)

~~~

After they were left alone, Bing and Bop went to Bop’s recording studio like they said they would. The room is attached to Bop’s bedroom, which Bop already locked. He and Bing are sitting inside the recording booth, hoping to conceal themselves further. They’re trying to keep their moods light; Bing plays music, and Bop sings along when he can. Both are afraid, Bop especially, but as seconds tick past the two begin to feel more and more secure.

(But Peevils knows that any half-intelligent person would hide in a soundproof room.)

It’s Bing who hears the hole shot into the door, but only barely, through the studio and recording booth walls.

“Shit,” he mutters, “She’s here.” Bop goes white.

“A-are you sure?” he asks. Bing listens again, and is able to hear footsteps approaching the studio. The room may be big, but he knows they don’t have long before they’re found.

“I’m sure, dude,” he answers Bop, voice quiet. He bites his lip. He has a plan, he’s had it for a while, but he knows Bop won’t like it.

“What now?” Bop asks, voice thick with fear.

“I do what I said I would earlier,” Bing says, keeping his voice as steady as possible, “I go and beat her up.” He pauses. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll convince her you’re somewhere else.”

“Bing,” Bop gasps, “You can’t. You can’t just confront her, she’s armed, she’ll hurt you, she’ll _kill_ you—”

“Bop, easy,” Bing murmurs, reaching over to squeeze Bop’s shoulder. “I know it’s scary, but there’s not much else to do. I can beat her, I just gotta take her by surprise. And if we stay in here she’ll just get us both.” He pauses a moment before taking off Bop’s cap with one hand and ruffling his hair with the other. “I mean, one of us has to make it, right?” He tries to grin.

Bop is terrified, but he sees in Bing a fear that surpasses his own. Maybe his eyes are shaded, and maybe he’s putting on a brave face (like always, he’s always swallowing his own nerves or panic for Bop), but Bop can’t miss the tightness in his expression, the way his brows furrow, the slight tremble in his body that he can feel from Bing’s hand in his hair.

“Bing, you don’t have to do this,” Bop whispers, “Maybe if we stay in here, and stay quiet—”

“Bop, dude, you know that won’t work,” Bing replies, and he’s right, but Bop can’t let this happen, he can’t let Bing just go out and—

“Bing, please.” Bop takes Bing’s hand, the one still holding his cap, in both of his own. He stares at Bing with wide, watery eyes. “Don’t go. Stay here with me.”

“You’ll be golden, bro.” That’s all Bing says as he pulls his hand out of Bop’s grip and places his cap back on his head.

“Bing, _please_ …” Bop is crying now, and feels frozen in place.

“You’ll be golden,” Bing repeats before getting up and leaving the booth, shutting the door behind him.

Bop whimpers, completely at a loss. Should he stay put like Bing wants? Should he follow? What good would that do? He can hear Peevils too, now, hear her footsteps coming into the studio. Bop’s fear wins out and he cowers into the back corner of the booth, hoping, praying, wishing. He hears words being exchanged, but his mind is so wrought with anxiety and terror that he can’t focus enough to comprehend them. He tries to keep quiet even as tears roll down his cheeks. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the tornado to touch down, caught in the split-second when a singer falls backwards into the crowd and it’s anyone’s guess whether they’ll be crowd-surfing or hitting the floor.

When he hears the gunshot, he throws both hands over his mouth to muffle his scream. It’s not the same painful and powerful scream he made when Google grabbed him, but a low and anguished wail. At the back of his mind, Bop wonders if he could replicate that high-pitched screech now, but again, what good would that do? It might let the other egos know he’s in trouble (he should’ve gone with them, he _should’ve gone_ with them, _if he had gone with them Bing wouldn’t be—_ ), but how long would it take them to get to him? How long would he be able to keep it up? All it would do is burst Mark’s eardrums and slow Peevils down but not stop her, merely delaying the inevitable.

Speaking of Peevils, she quickly finds the recording booth and kicks the door open, and Bop finally sees what he’s been so afraid of. Even looking at Mark, it’s impossible not to see Peevils there, in the way Mark’s shoulders roll after the kick to the door, the way his eyes peer at Bop, the way his face twists into an evil grin.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Peevils says, stepping forward towards Bop. If her body language hadn’t already tipped Bop off, her voice certainly would’ve: It’s too high, and there’s a layer of hissing just beneath it. He tries to scoot backwards, but he’s already up against the wall. Peevils laughs at his attempt to get away from her.

“God, you’re a coward,” she giggles as she approaches Bop, squatting down in front of him. “Not a very smart one either. But I guess you’re smarter than your friend there.” Peevils points vaguely over her shoulder. “He tried to convince me you weren’t here. Imagine,” she cackles, “You, MarkBop, not in your sound-proof studio during a time of crisis. And even if I didn’t know a thing about you, Bing is still a really bad liar.” She tilts her head. “Or, _was_ a really bad liar.”

Bop wants to say something, anything, or even scream or cry out, but he can’t get a sound past his lips. He already knows he’s too shaken to speak English, and no doubt Peevils will laugh off any Simlish he manages to spit out. Tears are still running fast down his cheeks, but he’s so paralyzed with fear that he can hardly even sob. He tries to reign himself back, get his breathing under control. He tries to remember the song Bing sang to him earlier. How did it go? They were sitting, they were sitting on the strawberry swing…

“This is really too easy,” Peevils says with a wide, manic grin, “The only one who really put up a fight was Wilford. I’m glad I got him first, because the rest of you are a nice break.”

Every moment was so precious…

There’s the click of the gun, and Bop feels cold steel on his temple. All he can do is whimper and shrink away, but he can’t go far backed into the corner.

They were sitting, they were talking on the strawberry swing…

“No last words from the singing ego?” Peevils mocks. “Too bad.” Bop whimpers again and squeezes his eyes shut.

Everybody was for fighting, wouldn’t wanna waste a thi—

_Bang!_

The bullet goes through Bop’s head and lodges itself in the wall. He slumps back into the corner as blood leaks from his temples. Peevils looks inside herself for Mark, and finds him in tears yet again. She’d already known he was a crier, but she’s surprised he still has any tears left in his body at all. He’s quiet again as well, not wanting to speak to her and not knowing what to say. Peevils grins to herself as she stands up and moves to leave the studio.

~~~

Google, Dr. Iplier, and Bim reach the second floor as Peevils is traveling down the east staircase. Though they’re on the opposite end of the floor from where King of the Squirrels lies, they immediately sense something is amiss from the squirrels congregating aimlessly throughout the hallway. None of them have paid much mind to King’s squirrels in the past, but they’ve never known the creatures to gather so haphazardly; sitting in random clumps and tittering nervously. All three of them are immediately worried, and they walk quickly through the hallway—as quickly as they can, that is, without stepping on any squirrels. It only takes a few minutes for them to find King, and even from a distance Dr. Iplier can see the line of red zeroes above his head, and knows it’s too late to help him. Bim, though, cannot see those zeros, and runs ahead to King.

“Bim—” Dr. Iplier begins, but Bim either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care to. The doctor shakes his head as he and Google pick up their pace to catch up with Bim.

As they approach, Bim sees something on the ground, yelps, and recoils. Dr. Iplier watches his face turn green as he staggers backwards. He goes into doctor mode like the flip of a switch, and thus doesn’t notice what Bim has seen right away.

“Hey, Bim, easy,” Dr. Iplier says gently, grabbing Bim’s shoulders to keep him upright, “What’s—”

Ah, _now_ he sees. Not only has Peevils killed King, but she’s killed several of his squirrels as well. There’s not much left of them but clumps of bloody fur and red pulp. Dr. Iplier feels a bit sick himself. He only hopes that Peevils killed the poor creatures after she killed King, so he didn’t have to see what became of his subjects.

Bim still looks like he might vomit (or cry, tears for King welling up in his eyes), so Dr. Iplier turns him away from the dead squirrels, keeping a steady arm around his shoulders. There’s nowhere for him to sit aside from the floor, so Dr. Iplier lowers him down, and a few squirrels approach him curiously. Google, meanwhile, can’t tear his eyes away from the grisly scene. At the very least he doesn’t feel physically ill (such a sensation is nearly impossible for him to experience), but the sight of King, older than himself but so much younger physically, and his poor squirrels bloody and dead on the floor doesn’t exactly make him feel good, either. He finally manages to look away and see Dr. Iplier trying to comfort Bim.

“Deep breaths,” Dr. Iplier is saying, “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly, now.”

Bim obeys, and his skin color returns to normal as the sounds of his long breaths fill the hallway. The squirrels around him, while clearly unhappy from what’s happened, stay where they are and sit up against Bim, calming him further. He reaches out a tentative hand to the squirrel nearest him. It sniffs his hand but otherwise doesn’t react, so Bim gently pets the tiny creature, feeling the slinky way it moves beneath his hand. He manages a smile.

“I hate to interrupt,” Google says, “But it’s likely that Peevils is using this stairwell.” He gestures in front of him, past King to the stairwell’s door. “Or she’s just exited it. Either way, we can catch her if we leave now and go quickly.”

At that moment, Dr. Iplier’s heart twists and pain fills his chest. He jumps up from the ground, grabbing the front of his shirt.

“Google’s right,” he gasps, “We have to go, now.” Bim scrambles to his feet, and the three move past King and his squirrels to enter the stairwell.

“Which way do we go?” asks Bim.

“She’s already killed most of the inhabitants of the third floor,” Google says, voice lowering without him meaning it to, “So it’s more likely she went to the first floor.”

“Dammit,” Dr. Iplier mutters before taking off down the stairs.

“Doctor, wait!” Bim cries, dashing after him.

Google feels an I-told-you-so lurking in his chest, but says nothing as he follows the others. Part of him hopes he’s wrong.

Especially when Dr. Iplier stops dead in his tracks.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps, before running off again. Bim and Google follow close behind, trying not to let anxiety slow their steps.

The group finally makes it to the first floor, and no one needs to ask where they’re going. They reach their destination and find that the exact thing they all feared has come to pass: Bop’s bedroom door is wide open, with a messy hole above the doorknob.

“I’m going to look for Peevils,” Google says, voice hard and cold, “She can’t have gotten far.” He moves away to look before Dr. Iplier can remind him that they ought to stay together. He and Bim have no choice but to step into Bop’s room, and into the adjacent studio.

They find Bing first, laying on the floor with deep black oil around his head. There might have been a struggle, or perhaps the force of the gunshot that killed him was exceedingly strong, because his sunglasses have fallen from his face and sit beside him, covered in oil. They can see Bing’s eyes, those strange orangey things, half-open and lightless. Dr. Iplier bends down to close Bing’s eyes as Bim ventures further into the studio. He sees the open door to the recording booth, and takes a deep breath in before he approaches it and steps through the threshold. He’s not surprised to find Bop’s body in the corner of the room, but the sight brings him to tears nonetheless. He’s fond of Bop, and Bop is so young, _was_ so young…

Dr. Iplier hears Bim’s sobs and joins him in the recording booth. He grits his teeth at the sight of Bop. He knows he should be staying calm and comforting Bim, but he can’t stop the anger and despair and regret and _guilt_ that well up in his chest. He shouldn’t have given up so easily. He shouldn’t have counted on their times not being set. He should’ve tried harder to get them to come along. He should’ve ordered, demanded them to come. He shouldn’t have left them. He shouldn’t have left them, _what kind of doctor just leaves people to die?_

“Dammit,” Dr. Iplier sighs, suddenly very tired.

“Are…” Bim begins, taking a shuddering breath, “Are we sure they’re the ones who were just killed?”

“It has to be them,” Dr. Iplier answers, voice quiet, “The blood is fresh, and Bing isn’t…cold yet.”

Indeed, the blood pooled around Bop is bright red and shiny, not the deep rusty maroon that surrounded the Host. And Bing, despite being an android, has the same warmth of a human from his whirring internal machinery. Dr. Iplier felt that warmth, not yet faded, on Bing’s face when he closed his eyes. The doctor is sure that they just missed their murders, just missed Peevils. As if on cue, he hears Google enter the studio.

“Peevils isn’t here,” he growls. Dr. Iplier and Bim turn away from Bop to meet him, and find him staring down at Bing, hands balled into fists.

“She must be in a stairwell,” Dr. Iplier says, “We have to check—”

“I did,” Google interrupts, voice hissing, “Both. I couldn’t see or hear anything in either one.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense. She’d have to be incredibly fast to get away like that, and even then, I should’ve heard her footsteps echoing. It’s like she’s disappeared.” He looks up at Dr. Iplier and Bim, eyes glowing blue. “Were the hell could she have gone??”

(Peevils hadn’t known about the other elevator, secretly tucked behind a wall on the first floor, until she’d possessed Darkiplier and saw into his mind. Apparently even he gets tired of teleporting everywhere, or occasionally finds himself in situations when he cannot teleport at all, so he made himself a private elevator with his reality-bending magic. No one knows about it, not even the Googles, and not only is it hidden and password-protected, it goes straight to Dark’s office. Of course, having seen into Dark’s mind, Peevils already knows the password. As Dr. Iplier, Bim, and Google puzzle over where she could be, she steps out of the elevator and into Dark’s office. There aren’t many egos left to kill, but there’s a certain pair of them that she knows will be exactly where she expects. So she walks out of Dark’s office to the stairwell, so she can travel down one floor.)

~~~

Yandere has nearly opened the elevator doors enough to stick a hand between them when another groan rises from the elevator.

“Ugh, what now??” he mutters, unable to keep his frustration internal any longer. His patience was exhausted what feels like hours ago to him, as he mindlessly wiggled his katana back and forth between the elevator doors. He’s so close now; once he can fit a hand comfortably through he can push the doors open himself. But the creaky sounds the elevator is making don’t bode well, and Yandere is forced to stop moving and wait for the sounds to pass.

Every movement Yandere makes minutely jostles the damaged machine. As he pries the doors apart, millimeter by millimeter, the elevator loosens just a little more. But he’s been careful, his movements have been quick and small and purposeful, and the elevator is holding steady enough for Yandere to escape if he keeps up that carefulness. That is, until, Dark’s elevator begins to move, and the shared system adds more movement and jostling to the main elevator.

So the elevator doesn’t quiet, but continues to creak, and then it lurches down. Yandere stumbles and falls, landing on the floor alongside Silver. He hisses in annoyance. The blood doesn’t bother him, but with the way the elevator is acting, he wonders if he’ll even be able to stand back up. At least he managed to hold onto his katana, which he decides to sheath until the noise stops. But it only continues, becoming a scraping, and the elevator lurches again, tilting to the side. Yandere is half-afraid the doors are going to slide back shut, but they seem stuck in the positions Yandere has pushed them to.

It suddenly occurs to him that perhaps he ought not to wait at all. He’s so close to getting a gap in the door big enough for his hand, and once that happens, he can escape the elevator in a minute, maybe less. The elevator is still making noise, still screeching at him, but who knows when it’ll stop? Maybe it’s a bad idea, but Yandere is tired of waiting, sick of being careful. He has to get _out_ of here, he’s wasted enough time as it is. Every second he’s stuck in the elevator is another second Peevils is walking around, another second Peevils is getting away with what she’s done to the people Yandere loves, another second Dark, Wilford, and Chrome are going unavenged.

Yandere grits his teeth. To hell with not being reckless, reckless is what he does _best_.

But he’s not stupid. He doesn’t scramble to his feet, and instead crawls back towards the elevator doors. He unsheathes his katana again and begins to work at the doors again, more quickly than before. The elevator screeches on, and Yandere growls. Just a little more. The elevator falls an inch, and Yandere almost tumbles backwards, but he steadies himself and keeps going. Almost there, almost there. He can imagine it now, imagine finding Peevils, imagine grabbing her by the hair, imagine throwing her down, imagine slicing through her legs to keep her from running, imagine wrapping hands around her throat and choking her until she turns blue, imagine cutting out her tongue when she can no longer scream, imagine prying open her ribs the same way he’s prying open the elevator doors—

The sounds finally cease, and for a long moment, Yandere believes the danger has passed.

Then the elevator drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This is what happens when I write myself into a hole and don't want to compromise my vision: A second stairwell and a magic elevator. Also, pacing whom? I don't know her. Hopefully she'll drop by next chapter.
> 
> As usual, I'll keep you posted via Tumblr on when the next chapter will be up. I'm still toying with other story ideas, and I have an old fic from Tumblr I'm considering cross-posting here, so hopefully I can give you guys SOMETHING in a reasonable timeframe.


	9. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all...right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I officially don't know what I'm doing with this fic. I thought it we were a chapter away from the climax, but turns out we most certainly are not. Oh well, that just means more chapters for you guys, and more plot outlines for me. And you know what they say, the more the...merrier? Hm.
> 
> I can't say things like "enjoy" or "happy reading" because none of this is happy. So, uh, I hope you derive some form of entertainment from this chapter? Let's go with that.

The crash of the elevator hitting the ground echoes throughout the building. Dr. Iplier and Bim jump, and Googleplier flinches as they go back up the west stairwell. Peevils, now on the fourth floor and looking in Bim’s room, also startles at the noise.

The Jims, in their shared room, hear it, too.

“Fucking—” Weatherman Jim yelps. “What was that??”

“How would I know?” Newscaster Jim answers, voice frayed from stress.

The pair had first gone to the observatory on the other side of their room, tried to see if there was any way to break the glass there and get out. They may on the fourth floor, but both of them prefer to take their chances scaling the building than tangling with Peevils. But it had soon become clear that there was no way they could break through, not even with clear panels in the glass, edges like a single hard kick could push them out (not that either Jim is a particularly strong kicker). They’d considered heading down to the ground floor and trying their luck with the glass doors, but both decided against it. What if they run into Peevils in the stairwell? Taking the elevator is out of the question; neither can shake the awful thought of the elevator opening in front of them to reveal Peevils already in it, ready to kill (but of course, it’s only a thought, not a vision, and they both wish their powers could’ve allowed them to predict this). So now, the pair is in their bedroom, trying to break the window there. But, thanks to the lockdown, it’s much stronger than the two of them, and no matter how hard they hit it, whether with objects from their room or their bare fits, they only manage to make a few cracks.

“God, this is bad,” Weather Jim mutters, “This is the worst possible thing, how—” He cuts himself off. “I didn’t really _like_ Peevils, but I didn’t think—”

“None of us did,” News Jim practically snaps, smacking the window in irritation, “Otherwise someone would’ve stopped her from doing this in the first place.”

“Hey,” Weather Jim says, voice soft, “You’re doing that thing again.” News Jim sighs, but Weather Jim continues. “That thing where you get all snappy and mean even though you aren’t mad at whoever you’re talking to.”

“Sorry, sorry,” News Jim mumbles, curling an arm around his counterpart, “I know how much you hate when I do that to you. I’m just…” He shakes his head. “This situation is so _fucked._ ”

“No kidding,” Weather Jim tries to chuckle, but it comes out like a whimper. News Jim kisses his forehead, trying to reassure.

“We’ll get out of this somehow, we just have to keep trying,” News Jim insists, “We’ve already made some cracks; if we focus on hitting those, then—”

They both hear another loud sound, not the thunderous crash from a moment ago, but an echoing bang of gunfire.

For a moment, both are frozen still.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ ” gasps Weather Jim.

“Shh,” News Jim murmurs, holding him closer. But he’s as scared as his partner is, and both know what’s coming now that Peevils is in the observatory, no doubt looking for them.

“Maybe, maybe—fuck,” Weather Jim whispers, “The closet? We gotta hide somewhere…”

“Yeah,” News Jim answers, voice just as quiet, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

As quietly as they can, they open their closet door and huddle into the back corner, closing the door behind them. It’s pitch dark, but neither of them go for the light switch. They both know that if Peevils sees even a hint of light coming from under the door, it won’t matter how quiet they are. At the very least, the observatory is a pretty big room, and has a lot of places that Peevils might look, so they have some time. News Jim sits up against the wall and Weather Jim crouches in front of him. Both are trembling with fear, trying to keep their breathing steady, trying to quiet the hammering thumps of their hearts. Weather Jim is worse at it, and News Jim sees he’s on the edge of hyperventilating.

“Shh, shh,” he whispers, pulling Weather Jim into his arms and onto his lap, “Whatever happens, I’m here, okay? I’m right here, honey. We’ll get out of this somehow.” He tries to sound convincing, but even to his own ears he’s hopelessly transparent. He opts to hug Weather Jim close instead of saying anything more, giving him another kiss, this time on his cheek. He tastes salty tears beneath his lips. Weather Jim, for his part, hugs News Jim back as tight as he can, curling up in his lap.

“What if…” Weather Jim whispers through tears, “What if we’re the only ones left?”

“Jim—”

“I’m serious! I’m—” Weather Jim pauses to lower his volume. “Who knows how many of us Peevils could’ve killed by now? And it’s not like we can just hurt her, ‘cause she took over Mark, and it’d just hurt him, too.” He shivers. “Bim’s on this floor, too, at the very least she probably already killed him.”

“We don’t know that,” News Jim murmurs, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “He could be anywhere. Maybe he met up with someone else, or he’s trying to break out like we are, or something…”

“I just—” Weather Jim’s words break off as he sobs. “God, I’m so fucking scared. How the hell are we gonna get out of this??”

“Shhhh,” News Jim whispers, “I admit it, hon, I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but whatever it is we’ll go through it together.” He gently takes Weather Jim’s chin in his hand and tilts his head up to look him in the eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Weather Jim answers, and they kiss, and they each feel more solid and steady than they have since Peevils’s voice came over the intercom.

Together. Since they were made, since they joined Ego Inc., since they were even conceptualized, since they were nothing but notes on a whiteboard and some lines in a script. Maybe they were made to deliver the news and predict the weather, but they’re sure they were also made for each other. They’re sure neither one of them could exist or survive without the other. The only thing they fear more now than their own death is the death of their counterpart, their partner, their soulmate. And the only thing they could fear more than that is the death of only their counterpart, and being left alone. There’s egos that tease or pity them for being so codependent, but they don’t care. When the universe has given them the perfect partner, one who matches their good traits and compliments their best ones, how could they love anyone else? How could they ask for anything more?

They have each other, and even now, with danger palpable in the air, that’s all they need.

Even when they hear their bedroom door being shot open, that’s all they need.

Weather Jim can’t suppress the whimper that leaves his throat, and News Jim cups his face in his hands.

“We’ll make it somehow,” he says, voice barely a breath, “Somehow, we’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” Weather Jim gasps as they hear Peevils’s footsteps walking around the room.

“I love _you,_ ” News Jim answers, kissing his partner again as they hear the doorknob of the closet door turn, “Just look at me, alright? Don’t turn around.”

To his credit, Weather Jim doesn’t. Even when the closet door swings open and the light from the bedroom hits his back, he stays looking at News Jim. He can hardly see him through the tears in his eyes, but still he doesn’t turn around. It helps that News Jim still has his hands on Weather Jim’s cheeks. It helps that News Jim is looking at him, too, not over his head at Peevils. Both of them have eyes locked on each other even as Peevils approaches them.

“Ugh,” Peevils mutters, “I thought I’d get more of a rise out of you guys than this. You’re no fun at all.”

Both Jims flinch, and Weather Jim sobs, and the tears News Jim had in his eyes finally spill forth. But neither Jim looks at Peevils. Neither Jim looks at Peevils as she presses her gun into Weather Jim’s head. Neither Jim looks at Peevils as she sighs in annoyance, wanting a reaction. Neither Jim looks at Peevils as they lean forward to each other, touching foreheads, trying to give each other even the smallest amount of comfort. Neither Jim looks at Peevils to see her grin as she realizes how she _can_ get a rise out of them.

“ _Crexliq trel_ ,” she says, reusing the words she used to beat Wilford, but more importantly, repeating the words she used to mess with Weather Jim before her plan was even in motion. The words worsen her headache and make Mark groan in pain, but it’s worth it for the look on News Jim’s face, and the way Weather Jim jolts.

Because Weather Jim remembers those words from the depths of his consciousness, and his eyes fill with recognition and memory and News Jim reads his gaze as he feels pain and haze sink into his skull. Weather Jim remembers the pain he feels now, remembers how his brain felt twisted up and wrong, how he’d been kept bedridden and mute for three days as he waited for the pain to dissipate, only able to curl his hands into white-knuckled fists as waves of agony rushed over him. News Jim, conversely, remembers the fear, how worried sick he’d been over his counterpart, watching him suffer and not being able to fix it, not knowing why it was happening or how to make it stop or how long it would last or if it might be permanent, wondering, even for a moment, if it might have been Dark’s doing, trying to make Weather Jim into another Host, and hoping with all his heart that it wasn’t. Both Jims remember not feeling much relief with the passage of the pain, being afraid and paranoid for a week afterwards, fearful that whatever it was might come back, because they never did find out what caused it.

But they know now. Even as they both feel that unfathomable pain hammering at their heads from the inside out, they know. They hurt too much to scream, or even cry, but they manage to keep upright. News Jim manages to keep his trembling hands on Weather Jim’s cheeks, and Weather Jim manages to keep his shaking arms around News Jim’s waist. They manage to keep their foreheads touching, as though it’s creating a lifeline between them, something they can still draw comfort from, even through the pain. They can’t even open their mouths to speak, but that’s okay, because they each know that they are loved. They would’ve known that even if they hadn’t said so to each other before Peevils opened the door.

Between the two of them, they are always loved and always loving. Truly, it’s all they could ever need.

Even as the gun goes off, it’s all they could ever need.

And it’s only fitting that the bullet Peevils fires zips through Weather Jim’s head and goes into News Jim’s as well, getting lost halfway into his brain. They slump into each other, covered in each other’s blood.

Peevils laughs and leaves the room, trying to think of where to head next.

~~~

“What was _that?_ ” asks Bim as he, Google, and Dr. Iplier hear the tremendous crash of the elevator.

“I believe that was the main elevator,” Google answers, “But it was working perfectly earlier today.”

“Do you think Peevils did something to it?” asks Dr. Iplier.

“The probability is high,” Google says, “As is the probability that someone was in the elevator when it dropped.”

“I didn’t feel anything,” Dr. Iplier says, “But that probably doesn’t mean much. It’s not like that could permanently kill any of us.”

“How…” Bim pulls on the cuff of his suit, nervous. “How many of us are there left?”

Neither he nor Google expect Dr. Iplier to be immediately ready to answer, but he’s been keeping relentless track of how many times he’s felt that pain in his chest, and which people they’ve already found. Having something to think about and calculate, even something so morbid, keeps him from falling into despair. He is a doctor, after all; he has to stay professional and keep his cool no matter what. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult.

“Aside from us,” Dr. Iplier answers Bim, voice quiet, “Only three, not including Dark. The only egos we haven’t seen yet are the Jims, Silver, and Yandere, but one of them is already dead.”

The news sinks in heavily as the group continues traveling up the stairwell. How could it have gotten to this point? How did Ego Inc., a place normally so busy and loud and lively, become so empty and quiet? How had Peevils plotted right underneath their noses? How had no one noticed? How had this happened? _How had this happened?_ None of them can answer. They can’t help but fear, now, what will happen if they fail. Peevils is so close, so close to killing them all. What if she decides she’s had her fun, and kills Mark before the group finds him? Bim, privately, wonders if he’s even capable of stopping her. He’s going to try, of course, but he’s so desperately afraid that it won’t be enough, so afraid that Mark will be caught in the crossfire. He so desperately wishes that he had accepted and trained his powers instead of trying to forget them, but it’s far too late for that now (not to mention how he could’ve saved Wilford if he’d followed his gut instincts, how it had taken him so long to go for any help, and maybe everything would be fixed by now if he’d just _acted_ ). Dr. Iplier and Google each wrestle with their own flavors of guilt and regret. Dr. Iplier still wonders if he could’ve seen the danger if he’d just looked at the other egos’ times of death (even if he’d stared Bing and Bop in the face and read their times and abandoned them anyway, and no matter what happens he will never forgive himself for that). Google still wonders why his systems were so out of sorts when Peevils came to the control room, why he’d frozen up, why he’d been so slow to react even as bullets were flying into his brothers. If he’d been faster and acted smarter, he wouldn’t have had to watch Chrome fall over and die, he would’ve have had to feel the life drain out of Oliver’s hand. Hell, maybe he could’ve even saved Plus, could’ve turned around and stopped Peevils the instant Plus mentioned the vents (he knows the probability of that working was nearly zero, but it somehow doesn’t stop him from wondering, wishing, and cursing himself for failing).

This is what the group carries in their hearts as they reach the third floor, the epicenter of their grief.

“Do you think she’d come back here?” asks Bim to both Google and Dr. Iplier.

“Perhaps,” Google answers, “This is where Dr. Iplier and I generally are, so she could’ve come here to look for us.”

“Let’s go then,” says Dr. Iplier, pushing open the door.

As the group enters, they can’t hear anything, though they know Peevils could potentially be hidden in a room, maybe lying in wait. The door puts them right alongside the clinic again, and all three of them spare a moment to remember what happened there earlier. Dr. Iplier, though, goes into his clinic despite the memory, despite Oliver’s body (covered by a blanket, Dr. Iplier knows he didn’t put that there) still lying on a stretcher.

“I’m getting a first aid kit together,” Dr. Iplier says by way of explanation as he steps into his clinic, “Whatever happens, we’ll probably need it.”

Google and Bim nod, but both find themselves hanging back, unwilling to look at Oliver’s body again. Bim trembles slightly as he looks at the clinic door and listens to Dr. Iplier rustling cabinets for supplies. Google notices this, and suddenly feels a pang of sympathy. He knows that if there’s anyone who misses Oliver as much as he does, it’s Bim.

“You love Oliver, don’t you?” Google asks him. Bim jumps, not expecting to suddenly be spoken to, and certainly not expecting such a question. If the situation were different he might try to lie, but he doubts it matters, now.

“Is it that obvious?” he asks, unable to stop the embarrassed blush that rises in his cheeks.

“Yes,” Google answers, deadpan. He pauses. “To everyone but Oliver, it seemed like. For being the most human out of the four of us, he could be pretty oblivious to human behavior.” His lips almost quirk into a smile, remembering, but it quickly fades as he continues. “I…don’t know if this will make you feel any better, and I don’t know if it’s my place to say it, but…I think Oliver might have loved you, too.”

Bim closes his eyes as tears begin to fall.

“Did we really just miss each other?” he asks to no one, smiling sadly. “Were we really both so blind to each other?” Bim shakes his head. “If I can’t stop Peevils—”

“You will,” Google insists, “You have to.”

“That’s not how life works,” Bim responds, voice quiet, “And you know that.”

From that point on the pair is silent, aside from Bim’s crying, until Dr. Iplier returns with supplies in the pockets of his white coat. He frowns when he notices Bim’s tears.

“I’d ask if you’re alright,” he sighs, “But none of us are. So what’s going on?” Bim shakes his head.

“Google and I were just talking about stuff, that’s all,” he says, voice thick. Dr. Iplier looks at Google, who only nods.

“Well,” Dr. Iplier continues, “I was thinking, while we’re here, we could find out where Peevils is.” He looks at Google. “You know how to use the cameras, so we could use them to look for her.” He furrows his brows. “Unless the lockdown stops us from doing that somehow. But maybe you could turn it off?”

Google hesitates. He doesn’t want to go back to that room, the room where he lost two of his brothers, the room where he knows their bodies still lay. But he knows Dr. Iplier’s idea is a good one, so he nods after a moment.

“The lockdown shouldn’t affect the cameras,” he says, “But I may not be able to disable it. When someone initiates a lockdown, they’re prompted to enter a password. The lockdown can’t be disabled until that password is entered, or until someone rewires the mechanism, which would take me at least an hour. Still,” he continues, “We can definitely find Peevils with the cameras.”

“Okay then,” Dr. Iplier says, “Let’s head there. But Peevils could be anywhere, so we ought to be careful.”

Google and Bim nod, and the three set off again, keeping their eyes and ears open. But the third floor seems deserted aside from them, aside from the bodies they know are still around. Before long Ed Edgar’s body comes into view, still laying in the doorway of the control room with his rifle beside him. Bim and Google both remember how he’d run off to stop whatever was happening, and how they hadn’t tried to stop him. It’s another regret, another piece of guilt that they hope won’t haunt them forever, something that may yet still be undone. But it’s hard to hold out that hope when they’re surrounded by the dead.

Meanwhile, Dr. Iplier is walking at the head of the group, and feels something happen in his chest. It’s another of the pains he’s been having all day, but magnified. It’s twice as sharp, twice as painful, so excruciating that it steals the breath from his lungs. Maybe it’s the strength of that horrible hurt, or maybe his beleaguered heart has finally had enough of those bizarre pains that accelerate his pulse and choke off his breath, or maybe the twisting burst of agony is one more stress on the doctor than his body and mind can take.

Whatever the exact cause, the pain is the root of why Dr. Iplier suddenly gasps and collapses, surprising both Google and Bim so greatly that neither has time to try and catch him.

“Doc!” cries Bim, running to his side. Google follows silently, mechanical mind already sifting through possible causes of this. Bim turns the doctor over onto his back, and he and Google both see that he’s completely unconscious. It’s Google who reaches down to check his pulse, and feels hummingbird-quick thrumming beneath his fingers.

“His pulse is elevated,” says Google, “Whatever caused him to pass out must be related.”

“Maybe someone else died?” Bim asks, still shaken, “But the pains he got were never this bad…”

“Either way,” says Google, “We’re going to find out.” He bends down and picks up Dr. Iplier, android strength holding him effortlessly. “We’ll go the control room, and I’ll look at the cameras while we wait for him to wake up.”

“What if it’s bad?” asks Bim, trailing Google as he resumes walking, “Shouldn’t we at least try to figure out what’s wrong with him?”

“Are you suggesting that I run a search on his symptoms?” Google asks dryly. Bim blinks, not sure whether Google has just insulted Bim or himself.

“I guess not,” he concedes.

The group soon reaches the control room, and both hesitate to step inside. Bim gasps; it’s his first time seeing the destruction Peevils wrought there. Google’s expression visibly hardens, but he won’t allow himself to lose his composure. The room is much the same as it was when he left it, aside from small details, like the ceiling vent cover laying on the floor and the congealing pools of motor oil. Even just outside the door, the stench of it is heavy in the air, and Bim is nearly dizzied by it. To Google, it’s as if the room is filled with blood.

“You stay with Dr. Iplier out here,” he says to Bim, setting Dr. Iplier down against the wall, “The fumes in there might hinder his recovery.” Bim nods, and gets down to the floor in front of the doctor.

“I guess I’ll try to wake him up,” Bim replies, “Tell me when you find something.”

Google nods, and walks into the control room past Ed Edgar’s body. He steps over the vent cover as he approaches the wall of cameras. They’re set on various places throughout Ego Inc., from when he and his brothers were trying to find where Peevils had gone, before she found them first. That includes Wilford’s studio, and Google can clearly see him and Dark still dead on the floor, and see the open vent behind the stage, the one Plus must’ve seen Peevils go into. Google shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and though it doesn’t quite work, he starts typing on the keyboard nearest to him anyway, intending on changing the screens being viewed. His mind is going through places to look, which ones have a higher probability of housing Peevils, when he gets an error message. He frowns, puts in the codes again. Another error. He grits his teeth. Even in the state he’s in, circuits twisted by the loss of his brothers, he shouldn’t be messing up these codes. He clicks on the error message:

“CAMERA_SCREEN_01 THROUGH CAMERA_SCREEN_24 ARE CURRENTLY LOCKED. REBOOT SYSTEM OR TRY AGAIN LATER.”

Google’s eyes narrow. Peevils is smart, but she’s no technology whiz. It’s practically impossible for anyone but the Googles to lock the screens, not to mention how long it takes. There’s no way Peevils could’ve stumbled onto how to lock the system by simply banging at the keys. There’s only one quick, surefire way to lock the cameras: A mechanical chip put inside each Google’s right wrist. All one of them has to do is make the screen system scan his wrist and it allows him to lock any and all of the camera screens.

Ah. So that’s what Peevils did. She must’ve dragged Plus or Chrome up by the wrist and scanned the chip herself. The way the system works, only the Google who created the screen lock can disable it, so Google knows better than to try scanning his own wrist. He knows what he has to do now, and he doesn’t like it. He bends down to Chrome, the nearest one to him, uses one strong arm to lift him up. Chrome’s eyes are still open, but there’s no light left in them, and his head lolls as he’s moved. Google looks away from Chrome’s face and focuses his attention on his brother’s right wrist, using the arm not holding Chrome up to take Chrome’s hand and put his wrist under the scanner. The system scans, but then lets out an angry beep. So Peevils used Plus, then. Google lays Chrome back down, much more gently than is necessary, and finds himself pulling Chrome’s eyelids down over his lifeless eyes. How could Google have gotten so sentimental? He sighs aloud and turns to Plus. He’s got one arm around him and is beginning to pick him up when he catches sight of something glinting on Plus’s right arm. Google takes his arm and turns it over to find broken skin, a mess of sparking wire and crunched-up metal, and dried black oil sitting in a large hole in Plus’s wrist. The chip, if it’s even still in there, is no doubt completely destroyed.

Google, for a moment, sees nothing but bright, furious blue. It’s not enough that she had to kill them, is it? It wasn’t enough for her to initiate a lockdown, was it? She had to use them like this. She probably asked one of them, Plus or Chrome or Oliver, how the camera screens worked under the guise of curiosity long ago. And whoever it was had told her, never suspecting what she’d do with the information. Never suspecting she’d murder them all, never suspecting she’d use Plus to lock the cameras and smash up his wrist when she was done. She’d tricked them. She’d tricked them and killed them and used them and broke them and Google has to reign himself back from overheating with rage, try and squeeze the blue out of his vision, because Peevils is still in Mark’s body, and even when he finds her he’ll have to wait until Bim yanks her out to give Peevils her due.

He sighs again as the burning rage leaks out of his body to be replaced with resigned sadness. He releases Plus’s arm but continues to hold him, finding himself not wanting to let go.

As Bim tries to wake Dr. Iplier outside the door, Google hugs Plus close and whispers apologies that he knows his little brother can’t hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who keeps giving herself emotions for egos she didn't use to care about? Meeeee :'D
> 
> I'm gonna be starting school a week from now, so hopefully I can get the next chapter out before then, or at least pretty soon after. See you then!


	10. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Death inspires me like a dog inspires a rabbit."  
> -TWENTY ØNE PILØTS, heavydirtysoul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I can finally put something out!! Part of the reason it took so long was that I was trying to figure out if the bits left before the climax were gonna be one chapter or two, and I basically had to write it to find out. It ended up being two, so here's the first one.
> 
> Hope it's worth the wait!

Yandereplier wakes up slowly, limbs heavy and head full of cotton. He groans, opening his eyes to see spots dotting the air before him. He closes his eyes again and tries to take stock, figure out how badly he’s hurt. He tests out his limbs, wiggling his fingers and toes, curling up his legs, bending his arms. He knows there’s bruises and cuts, but nothing seems broken. He takes a deep breath in, and it goes down with minimal pain. No broken ribs, either. He’s thinking he got lucky when his mind clears enough to realize his scalp is wet. He cautiously reaches up a hand, touching ragged flesh. White hot pain sears through him, making him yelp and startling him into full awareness.

Right. The elevator. He was trying to pry it open when it dropped. He remembers feeling air rush around him and hearing the elevator screaming on its way down. He looks around himself, still a little dizzy from his head wound. Silver is still beside him, half-buried under rubble. The elevator doors are, at last, open; the metal crumpled up from the impact with the ground. Yandere searches around himself for his katana, and finds it no longer inside the elevator. He gets up, staggering as his injury protests, and steps over debris and through the broken doors.

He, and the elevator, have reached the basement. None of the egos live here, and the space is mostly for power generators and computer systems, meant to create and contain the vast amount of electricity and data the egos use on a daily basis. Despite being a rather important area of the building, the place is dark and dirty, since hardly anyone ever has to come down here. Yandere is reminded of a parking garage at night; there’s the same concrete floors, the same dull orange light. He quickly spots his katana several feet away from the elevator, where it must have been thrown as the machine hit the ground. Yandere picks it up and looks it over, looking for fractures or scratches.

It's still perfect. Of course it is; an anime protagonist can’t just lose their weapon, not unless it’s for some meaningful reason or there’s another weapon ready to replace it. Yandere may not be able to control his reality-warping, not exactly, he knows by now how to predict it. His head still hurts, for instance, but he knows it won’t much matter when he faces Peevils. An anime protagonist can be beaten bloody and not even slow down in a fight, so Yandere knows he can, too. Most importantly, however, Yandere feels, deep in his gut, that a final battle is approaching. And he knows where it will be, because an anime protagonist always meets their antagonist at the perfect place and perfect time, so the last fight can take place without one of them waiting too long or stumbling around looking for the other.

Yandere is tired of stumbling around. Come hell or high water, it’s time for this to end. He hasn’t forgotten what he wants to do to Peevils, how he wants to pull her apart, rend her flesh from her bones, split her head open as the crash of the elevator split his, shove his katana down her throat and into her heart so she feels even a modicum of the despair and pain Yandere feels thinking of the people she stole from him.

He knows exactly what he has to do, exactly where he has to go to do it, and he’s not going to let anything get in his way. Not anymore.

The basement is connected to the ground floor via stairs, but not the same stairs that connect the rest of the floors to each other. Why this is Yandere doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care to wonder as he races up the steps, finding himself in the ground floor lobby. He doesn’t stop there, dashing to the nearest stairwell, the west one, and going up the stairs at a pace nearly inhuman.

He only barely notices the other person already in the lobby, and pays them no mind. They aren’t Peevils, so for now, they don’t matter.

~~~

While Yandere rouses himself in the elevator, Amy Nelson finally arrives at Ego Inc.

She’d left her apartment as soon as she got off the phone with Dr. Iplier, but Los Angeles traffic spares no mercy for anyone, and it had taken her this long to get to the building despite it not being far away. She leaves her car in a nearby parking garage and walks to Ego Inc., fear quickening her steps. Most people around her ignore the building, for it’s swathed in a strange magic that keeps it shadowed, turns people away and keeps them from entering. But Amy beelines for it as her thoughts run wild, the way they had when Dr. Iplier explained the situation to her earlier. She still wrestles with astonishment at what Peevils is doing, despair at what she’s already done, and guilt over not being able to prevent it. Peevils is _her_ figment, after all. Out of anyone, shouldn’t Amy have known what she was hiding? Shouldn’t Amy have been able to see what she was planning? Amy can’t help but think so. It’s bad enough that Peevils is killing off the egos, Amy’s _friends_ , one by one, but what truly turns Amy’s stomach and sets her heart to pounding even harder is that she’s using Mark to do it. It hurts to know that Mark, _Mark_ , the most loving, gentle, and pure-hearted man Amy has ever known, is being used to murder his own creations. And Amy hasn’t forgotten what Peevils plans to do once she’s killed all the egos, what she’ll do to make sure they stay dead.

Mark can’t die like this. Amy doesn’t know what she’ll do to stop it, but she’s not going to sit by and let it happen.

When she reaches Ego Inc., she tries the doors first. Locked, as she already knew. The windows are glass panels with no latch to try opening, and they’re reinforced and cloudy, preventing Amy from seeing inside. The glass doors have gotten a similar treatment. But Amy isn’t about to give up, not without trying. She pushes and pulls at the door, bangs on it until her fists hurt. It doesn’t make so much as a crack. It’s the same with the window, and Amy decides she needs more muscle. But the pedestrians walking up and down the street barely seem to notice her, as if Ego Inc.’s shadow is swallowing her up as well. She considers calling in other friends of hers for the briefest of moments, but dismisses the thought almost immediately. It’s enough that Mark’s in danger, she can’t bring more people she cares about into the fray (and she knows, too, that Mark wouldn’t want his friends here, either. Amy’s sure he doesn’t want _her_ here, knowing him and how he almost seems allergic to inconveniencing those he cares about, much less letting them put themselves in danger on his behalf. But Amy never let his stubbornness stop her from helping him before, and she doesn’t plan to now). She looks around herself for something to use to break the doors down or open. There’s nothing, save for a chunk of sidewalk that’s broken away from the path, nearly in the street.

She grabs the block with both hands and heaves it into her arms. It’s too heavy and awkwardly-shaped for her to hold it long, so she can’t put much force behind it when she throws it at the glass window. There’s a loud thunk and the glass shakes slightly, but it doesn’t crack. The block hits the ground but doesn’t break apart, which Amy is grateful for. She repeats the steps, picking up the block and tossing it at the window, trying to aim for the same spot each time, trying to put more power into her throws.

Amy doesn’t know about the high-pitched cry that MarkBop let out when Google grabbed his arm earlier in the day, but she’s seeing its effects as the glass begins to crack under the force of the sidewalk chunk. If not for that glass-rattling scream, it would’ve taken much longer for the glass to splinter into spider web cracks, for it to get weak enough for the chunk to shatter the window and fly into the building’s lobby. Amy’s exhausted and sweating from shouldering the heavy weight of the block so many times, but it’s masked beneath the pride she feels for figuring out a way into Ego Inc.

The window ends close to the ground, so Amy carefully steps through, trying not to snag her legs on the shards of glass littering the window frame. She makes it through without getting any cuts, and is immediately struck by how _quiet_ it is inside Ego Inc. The building is plenty of things, and there are plenty of words Amy would use to describe it, but “quiet” is not one of them. Neither is “empty,” or “lonely,” or “unsettling,” but these are the words that come to her mind as she looks around the ground floor and soaks in the silence. She finds MarkBop’s bedroom door open, with a splintery hole above the doorknob. Amy’s heart twists, but she doesn’t step inside, too afraid of what she’ll find there. She feels a similar way outside the Host’s library, despite the doors there looking untouched. If it’s been this long, the Host might already be gone.

Amy realizes she has no clue who is still left. She knows that Darkiplier is the only one of them that Peevils could never kill completely, not even with Mark, but what about the others? Dr. Iplier was the one who called her, is he still okay? Maybe Wilford might be alright, Amy can’t imagine anyone ever killing him. But if he were, surely he would’ve stopped Peevils? How many egos are left? How many of her friends are gone? Amy is suddenly struck with an awful thought, a thought that she might have come too late, and she’ll search the building top to bottom and find nothing but bodies until she runs into Peevils, no longer using Mark as a shell and smiling triumphantly, and crumpled and bloody at her feet is—

Amy shakes her head. She can’t afford to think like that. She can’t let herself assume the worst. Mark has to be alive. There have to be egos left.

In the next instant, her hopes are proven right as Yandereplier, free of the elevator, races past her.

For a long moment, Amy is too stunned to react. Then she turns and runs after Yandere in time to see him dash up the west stairwell.

“Yan! Wait!” she yells, pushing open the stairwell door and looking up through the ceiling, watching Yandere continue to run. Is he going to the top floor? Amy knows he lives on that floor, and that could be the reason he’s heading there. But what if he knows Peevils is there? If he knew she was there, wouldn’t he be there already? Maybe something happened that prevented it? Amy’s thoughts turn this way and that as she tries to decide if Yandere is looking for Peevils, and if he knows where she’s going to be.

Amy knows, though, that there’s no way for her to be sure either way. Not unless she follows him. Yandere always made Amy a bit nervous, given his intentional proximity to Dark, but he’s the only ego Amy has seen so far. She has no choice but to trust his judgement.

She starts up the stairs, not nearly as fast as Yandere but trying to hurry nonetheless.

~~~

When Googleplier’s crushing sadness finally ebbs back into the quiet ache it was before he saw Plus’s wrist, he lays his brother back down and leaves the control room. He finds Bim still trying to rouse Dr. Iplier, repeating his name and prodding his shoulders, clearly unwilling to shake him. He looks up when he hears Google walk up to him.

“Well?” he asks, bracing himself for awful news, “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” Google replies.

“What?” Bim asks, puzzled. Of all the answers he’d been expecting, this was not one of them.

“I couldn’t,” Google growls, not at Bim but at the situation, “Peevils put a lock on the cameras. She used Plus’s chip to do it, and then she broke it. Chrome and I’s chips won’t work, it has to be whoever set the lock.”

“Shit,” mutters Bim, looking back at Dr. Iplier, “Now what? We can’t go anywhere, not with him like this.”

“You answered your own question,” Google says, “There’s nothing we can do but wait for him to wake up. If it was one of his pains that caused him to pass out, then perhaps we can figure out who it was and go from there.”

At that moment, Dr. Iplier stirs, and Google and Bim snap their attention to him.

“Doc!” Bim cries, using a hand to sweep Dr. Iplier’s bangs out of his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Dr. Iplier blinks, bleary-eyed, but the lethargy lasts for only a moment. The doctor’s eyes fill with panic, and he jolts up like he means to stand. Google puts a hand on his shoulder, keeping him sitting down.

“Don’t strain yourself, Doctor,” he says, “You lost consciousness.”

“Two,” Dr. Iplier gasps, not looking at Google and practically staring through Bim. His hand goes to his chest, clutching his shirt. “It was two, two at once.” No one has to ask what he means. Bim’s face goes white.

“The Jims,” he breathes, “It has to be.”

“Let’s go to the fourth floor, then,” Google says, taking his hand away from the doctor’s shoulder to stand.

“It’s way too late,” Dr. Iplier sighs, beginning to recover, “I don’t know how long exactly I was out, but it must have been a few minutes at least. There’s no way Peevils is still there.”

“Perhaps,” Google answers, “But Peevils locked the cameras, so it’s all we have to go on.”

He holds out a hand to Dr. Iplier, who takes it and allows Google to help him up. Bim stands as well, and the three head for the east stairwell, closer to it now than they are to the west one. They’re not going slowly by any means, but they aren’t hurrying like they have at earlier times. Dr. Iplier is certain Peevils is already somewhere else, and Google and Bim don’t want to rush Dr. Iplier now that he’s just come out of a faint.

Bim shudders as they walk past Wilford’s studio, but doesn’t speak.

Then it’s up the stairs again. So many stairs. So much walking, chasing, backtracking, yet egos keep dying, and time keeps ticking, and Peevils stays just out of reach.

~~~

Peevils, for her part, is no longer on the fourth floor, just as Dr. Iplier suspects. She’s returned to the top floor, having already killed the Jims and searched Bim’s room and greenhouse for the show host. She suspects that at least some of the egos remaining have grouped up, otherwise she might have run into one by now. The building is large, though, and she realizes that the egos can hide from her for quite a while if they have a mind to. But Peevils doubts they’d all cower and hide, and she expects that the egos that are still around won’t accept their fates without a fight.

Yandere is of particular concern to Peevils.

No doubt the young ego is furious, no doubt he’s been hunting Peevils down all day. It’s rather a miracle he hasn’t come across her yet. Peevils has seen nothing of Yandere so far. She scopes out the floor and checks out his room, looking under furniture and inside the closet, finding nothing of note but Yandere’s “senpai shrine,” a strange little monument to his obsession with Dark, tucked deep into his closet (said closet contains several schoolgirl uniforms and a bunch of other clothes that Peevils has never seen Yandere wear). Peevils curls a lip in disgust at the shrine, seeing the things Yandere managed to take and store there. A pair of socks, a few strands of short black hair, and…a toothbrush? Peevils vaguely recalls Dark complaining about his toothbrush disappearing to Wilford some time ago, and how Wilford’s lips had quirked into a grin like he knew what had happened but didn’t want to say anything. Peevils had originally taken it to mean that Wilford had stolen it as a prank, but clearly, that had not been the case. She decides she’s seen enough and leaves the closet to look elsewhere on the floor.

The next room she looks in is Yandere’s dojo. The room is huge, wide and with high ceilings, paneled windows, and wood floors covered by a mat. Some weapons hang on the far side of the wall. Mostly swords, but there’s throwing stars, a naginata, and a wooden staff. Peevils knows that Yandere trains with these but she’s never seen him use them outside the dojo, as he much prefers his trusty katana over anything else. After Peevils and Wilford became something like friends Yandere tried to teach Peevils a bit about his weapons, but Peevils hadn’t had the patience for it, not when Wilford’s short quick knives and loud powerful guns were much more appealing and easier to figure out without slicing off a finger. Still, Peevils remembers some basics as she looks at the weapons on the wall. Not that she’ll need them; she still has the revolver she stole from Wilford, and she has enough bullets on her to miss every remaining ego three times over and still have enough left to kill them all.

Speaking of killing…

She hears running footsteps come to a stop a distance behind her. She doesn’t have to look to know that someone else has entered the dojo, and doesn’t have to wait long to figure out who.

“ _Peevils_ ,” hisses Yandere’s high falsetto, dripping with barely suppressed rage.

“Took you long enough to find me,” Peevils replies, turning around to look at the ego. “Come to think of it,” she continues, realizing something, “You weren’t by any chance the one who got stuck in the elevator, were you?”

Yandere’s eyes flash, the chocolate brown irises melting into deep, angry red.

“You _were!_ ” Peevils laughs, “Sheesh, what’d you take the elevator for? You _had_ to have known that was a bad idea.” She shrugs. “Whatever, too late for you to do anything about your idiocy n—”

_“Damare!”_ Yandere shouts, clapping hands over his ears and tangling fingers in his hair. “Shut up, shut up! I don’t have to hear anything you say!” His head snaps to the side, and his fingers, still on his head, start to twitch. “You killed them, you killed the ones who matter the most!” Tears of anger and despair well up in Yandere’s eyes. “Yami-san and onii-san and Aka-kun…” Yandere wrenches his hands away from his head, almost pulling out some of his own hair. He points a finger at Peevils while his other hand twitches at his side. Tears start spilling down his cheeks. “You killed them, so now…” A wicked, manic grin spreads across his face, despite the tears continuing to flow. “… _I_ kill _you_.”

“What, for them?” Peevils says, unimpressed by Yandere’s display. She seen him unhinged before, given how moody Yandere is, how prone he is to outbursts of rage. “I guess Wilford was nice enough to you, but Chrome barely liked you at all. And Dark?” Peevils laughs. “You’re not his kohai, you’re his _assistant_. You’re his errand boy, the one who does all the work that’s too boring for him. He doesn’t keep you around because he _cares,_ he keeps you around because you’re _useful_.”

Peevils can tell by the look on Yandere’s face that her words have struck a chord. His pointing finger falls, and his arms become stiff at his side, even as his hands continue to twitch.

“Stop,” he growls, looking away so forcefully that his neck cracks.

“You know,” Peevils continues, “A month or so ago I was talking to Dark, and you came up in the conversation. I asked him what he thought of you. I mean, you hang around him so often, and he has you do all this stuff for him, so he has to feel _something,_ right?”

“Stop it,” Yandere mutters, still not looking at Peevils. His fingers curl and flex like they have minds of their own.

“You know what he said?” Peevils grins, and lowers her voice to better mimic Dark’s gravelly tone; “‘He’s _convenient,_ that’s all.’”

“ _Usodaro!_ ” Yandere screams, finally looking at Peevils again. His insane smile is gone, replaced by an expression of anguish. “You’re a liar!” he cries, “Why should I believe anything you say??” Yandere remembers earlier in the day, remembers when he’d found Dark under Peevils’s spell, remembers Dark’s aura reaching for him, guiding him closer, remembers touching Dark’s chest, and how his hand had brought Dark back to the surface, how his touch had relaxed Dark and rejuvenated his aura, how the thanks Dark had given Yandere sounded so genuine. There was something there, wasn’t there? Isn’t there? _Isn’t there?_

“I’m not sure.” Peevils answers Yandere’s question with a shrug. “But if I say that if Dark really gives a shit about you, he’d already be acting like it. He already knows how you feel about him, so if he cares about you, then why hasn’t he said anything?” Peevils tilts her head. “When you think about it that way, I’m not such a liar after all, am I?”

Yandere hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t wanted to. But it’s true, isn’t it? Yandere never made his love for Dark a secret. His mind reels, sifting through memories, looking for a sign, a signal, something to tell him that Peevils is mistaken, that Dark _does_ care, he has to, it’s just somewhere so deep that Yandere can’t see it, so deep that Wilford always tells Yandere not to get his hopes up, so deep that Chrome practically rolls his eyes whenever Yandere talks about Dark, so deep that Yandere is left feeling like whatever connection he has with Dark could snap at any moment, so deep that for all the comparatively kind looks and gentler tone of voice and times Dark let Yandere watch him play piano Yandere still feels like he has to try harder and do more and needs more from Dark but how could he ever ask for more because anything from Dark should be enough it should be enough _Yandere should be enough why isn’t he enough—_

Yandere savagely shakes his head, tears still streaming down his face. When he looks back at Peevils, his eyes are wide, his pupils pinpricks, and his irises redder than ever. His body jerks unnaturally, fingers seizing, arms twisting, spine heaving, neck lurching. Even with the tears pouring down his cheeks, he practically radiates fury.

_“Sekai de ichiban daikirai,”_ Yandere growls, voice dropping from his normal high tone into something deeper, demonic, _“_ _Omae o korosu.”_

Peevils knows Yandere enough to understand what his words mean, allowing Mark to understand as well.

_“Oh god,”_ Mark gasps from inside his mind, _“I’ve never seen him this mad before. He’s going to kill us both.”_

“Slow your roll, Yandere,” Peevils says, a teasing lilt to her voice, “You know you’ll doom yourself, and Wilford and Chrome might I add, if you kill Mark.”

_“I said stop it!!”_ Yandere yells, “Shut up already, murderer! Alien bitch!” Yandere suddenly starts to laugh, a high, grating sound. When he looks at Peevils again, his manic grin has returned. “I don’t have to kill Mark-sama to get you out,” Yandere giggles, unsheathing his katana, “And when I do get you out, _you’ll wish you were never made_.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” asks Peevils, aiming her revolver.

Yandere dodges the bullet with inhuman speed, charging at Peevils with animal ferocity. She reflexively shields herself with her arms as Yandere approaches. The katana cuts into her (Mark’s) arm and slices the revolver in two. The pieces clatters to the floor as Peevils staggers back. She gropes the wall behind her and finds the naginata, bringing it in front of and across her chest to catch and stop Yandere’s next blow. Her arms throbs sharply and blood drips down.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna kill him,” Peevils spits as she pushes the naginata forward and shoves Yandere back. Yandere’s grin is wider than ever.

“Mark-sama doesn’t _need_ both arms to live,” he laughs, before charging at Peevils again.

Peevils manages to block the blows with the naginata, and the clang of metal hitting metal resounds in the dojo, over and over again. Peevils finally manages to land a hit of her own, slashing across Yandere’s shoulder. But if anything, it only makes him stronger, only makes him fight harder. It certainly makes him angrier.

_“Shine! Shine! Shine!!”_ Yandere screams as he relentlessly swings at Peevils.

Peevils grits her teeth. It’s like fighting Wilford all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, another chapter where no ones dies?? I didn't think I had it in me. I must be going soft :o
> 
> Also, I know Google Translate can be a bitch sometimes, and I just really want y'all to know what the heck Yan is saying here (because I spent a good couple hours on finding decent translations for things ;w;) so here's what the Japanese words/phrases used mean, in order of when they were used:
> 
> Damare = Shut up  
> Aka = Red  
> Usodaro = That's not true/That's a lie  
> Sekai de ichiban daikirai = I hate you most in the world/I hate you more than anyone  
> Omae o korosu = I will kill you  
> Shine = Die
> 
> Next chapter will be up tomorrow!


	11. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We come together so we aren't alone when we fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dudes...I love this chapter. It's the shortest chapter so far, but trust me, it's a doozy.
> 
> In related news, this is the chapter with body horror, jsyk.
> 
> Enjoy, maybe! :D

Darkiplier comes back from death slowly. Waking up after dying is like rising from a tar pit, like swimming through ink. Death, after all, is not used to giving people back. Death is not like sleep or unconsciousness, it is a liminal space in itself. Death is cold and painful, and one floats there in the miasma of it, slowly drifting through death’s embrace, tight like a vise. Dark feels nothing but the shrapnel that slashed into his face, its intrusion there, but he only has enough awareness to feel the burning pain, and not enough to reach up and remove the shard (not that he could, anyway; there’s nothing to remove, death makes everything intangible, even one’s own being). There’s nothing but blood, nothing but agony, until Dark starts to feel more, finds himself breaching the surface of death’s ocean, like he’s being extracted from a black hole. There’s nothing he does to facilitate the process; death renders everyone passive, even those like Dark who so crave control.

In death, there is no control.

But he does finally wake, his awareness increases in spurts, and eventually he finds himself fully healed on the floor of Wilford’s bedroom. As the memories of death fade away, he remembers how he died in the first place, the boom of the bazooka exploding over his head. He remembers the words he exchanged with Peevils, he remembers her admitting her plan to kill the rest of the egos. Dark remembers, still, even now, what it was like to be alone, what it was like to be the only one, what it was like when he found other egos only to almost lose some of them to fading, and his heart clenches with something like terror. How long has it been since he was killed? Too long. Dark doesn’t know who’s still alive aside from himself, but he knows how to find out.

He stands up, brushing metallic dust off his suit. He closes his eyes and lets his aura wander.

His aura may be attached to him, and it may have been created for him, but it isn’t him, and it can do things that Dark cannot. His aura, for instance, can spread itself throughout a space, seeping through walls and searching for bodies, searching for life. As long as Dark doesn’t let it wander too far, he can pull it back with ease once he knows where he has to go. With his eyes closed, he sees what his aura senses, sees vague outlines of halls and rooms punctuated with people. But his aura can sense the stillness in them, and Dark can, too. There’s a body nearby in the studio, three in the control room, one in the clinic. He could make his aura get closer, examine, figure out who the bodies used to be (indeed, Dark hasn’t forgotten who lies in the studio), but he has his aura pass over them. He needs to find the living ones; the dead can’t stop Peevils now.

His aura permeates both stairwells, and finds someone in the west one, someone moving. His aura latches on, watches closely, and Dark begins to figure out who the person is. They’re a female, Dark can see from their form. Peevils? Has she already killed them all and let Mark go? Dark controls the spike of fear in his chest as he commands his aura to look closer. No, it’s not Peevils. This person is a human. A female human. Dark keeps his eyes closed but raises his eyebrows. He briefly wonders what Amy is doing here before he has his aura move on from her, slithering up the stairwell and pouring into the fourth floor. There, he finds several people, all collected in one room. Two of them are dead, but there’s three that aren’t. Dark decides that with how long he’s been dead, this is likely the biggest group he’ll be able to find. It doesn’t take him long to put together where on the fourth floor the others are, and once he does, he calls his aura back to him. It recedes from the fourth floor, flowing back the way it came, sliding down the stairwells and rolling into the studio before reaching Dark again. He feels the familiar sensation of his aura enveloping him, feeding power into his veins and sucking the warmth from his skin.

Once his aura surrounds him again, he opens his eyes and teleports to the Jims’ bedroom.

~~~

In the short time it takes Googleplier, Dr. Iplier, and Bim to reach the fourth floor, Dr. Iplier begins to feel like himself again. He remembers the split-second before he passed out, remembers how severe that pain in his chest from the murder of the Jims had been. He knows, objectively, that those pains aren’t causing him any lasting damage; the tests and examinations he’d performed on himself earlier that day attest to that. But he can’t help but fear what could happen to him if he has to feel much more of those spikes in his heart. Surely it wouldn’t kill him forever, but who knows what kind of state Mark will be in after Peevils leaves him? Dr. Iplier knows that if he ends up dead, whether by Peevils’s hand or not, they’re all doomed.

He tries to push those thoughts away as he and the rest of the group walk into the fourth floor. They find Bim’s room first, door open and place messy from being looked through. His greenhouse is in a similar state. Further down the hall they find the Jims’ room, but the door is closed and locked.

“She must’ve gone in through the observatory,” Bim says, voice wavering slightly. He’s not looking forward to finding the Jims, the young egos he’d taken under his wing and become something of an older brother to.

Google and Dr. Iplier nod, and sure enough, the find the door to the observatory shot open the same way Bop’s bedroom door had been. They search the observatory, finding enough of a mess to further confirm that Peevils had once been there. But they don’t find the Jims until Google sees the hole in the door that connects the observatory to the Jims’ bedroom. The closet door is still wide open, as Peevils saw no need to close it, so the group only needs to take a few steps into the room to see the Jims.

News Jim is against the wall, Weather Jim slumped into him, both of them with holes in their heads and wide, glassy eyes. There’s blood, splattered on the walls and covering the floor and soaked into each Jim’s hair. Bim cries out at the sight of them before running to the closet, practically tripping over himself to get to the younger egos. He nearly stumbles as he kneels beside them, and sobs tear out of his throat as he gathers them both into his arms. He can’t imagine how they must have felt, he can’t imagine how scared they must have been as they heard Peevils coming for them, he can’t imagine how they must have despaired knowing they were about to die, knowing they were about to lose each other. Bim can’t help but feel like he should have been there, like he should have been able to protect them. Isn’t that what brothers, whether in blood or in spirit, do? He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Dr. Iplier there. He doesn’t say a word, only sits by Bim and keeps his hand on him. He seems to already know that there’s nothing he can say to make this any less heartbreaking.

Google, meanwhile, hangs back, looking at the cracks in the bedroom window. He can tell just by examining them that the Jims were nowhere close to breaking the window. He isn’t sure if that should make him feel better or worse. He looks back at Dr. Iplier and Bim, and remembers that they’d come to this floor for Peevils, not for the Jims. They’ve already scoured the rooms and found no sign of her, so Google knows they ought to move on. But he doesn’t have the heart to say so to Bim, who continues to sob as he holds the Jims close.

Then, all at once, a puff of black smoke appears in the center of the room and a wave of cold air spreads out from it, making Dr. Iplier and Bim shiver. Google isn’t so effected due to his mechanically-generated internal temperature, but his programming doesn’t stop him from being shocked to see Darkiplier standing before him.

“Dark??” asks Dr. Iplier, getting up from beside Bim.

“Who else?” Dark answers wryly, “You didn’t expect me to stay out of this for long, did you?”

“I guess not,” Dr. Iplier sighs.

“I found you all through my aura,” Dark explains, “Peevils killed me earlier today.” His expression darkens. “She came to me with this…plan this morning. I assume you all know what it is.”

“We do,” Google affirms, solemn.

“Wait,” Dr. Iplier cuts in, brows furrowing with anger, “You knew what she was planning and you didn’t stop her?”

Dark’s shell cracks briefly, his form twisting around the space he stands in before settling back into normalcy.

“You don’t think I tried??” he snarls at Dr. Iplier, “She’s more powerful and cunning than any of us thought. She didn’t even tell me the full extent of her plan when she approached me with it. She claimed she intended to kill only Wilford and the Host.”

Both Dr. Iplier and Bim visibly bristle.

_“Only??”_ Dr. Iplier yells. “ _Only_   Wilford and the Host??”

“You say that as if I was willing to accept that,” Dark says, voice deadly calm, “Which I most certainly wasn’t.”

“Then what happened?” asks Google.

“She has…” Dark pauses, searching for the words to describe Peevils’s abilities. “…a certain power with her words. She spoke something to me in a different language, a language unlike anything I’ve ever heard. I suspect it comes from her species.”

Bim sniffles, and finally speaks up.

“Yandere said you were frozen,” he says, still looking at the Jims, “He came to me to see if I knew anything, and I went to the Googles, and, well…”

Dark remembers the bodies his aura found in the control room, and nods. Bim’s mention of Yandere makes Dark wonder where the younger ego is now. He has no doubt that Yandere has figured out what’s happening by now, and that he has revenge on the brain. He hopes that Yandere won’t be too reckless, but knowing Yandere, he doesn’t put much stock in that option. He feels a strange sort of worry in his gut thinking about it.

“The words Peevils spoke…compelled me,” Dark explains, “There was something in them, in their sound, that forced me to listen to her.” He growls at the memory. “She made me take her to Mark. All I could do was watch from inside myself.” He pauses. “Not unlike what Mark must be doing now.”

“Great,” Dr. Iplier mutters, “It’s not enough that she’s clever and can possess people, she has a weird alien language she can hypnotize people with, too.”

“We still have our plan,” Google reminds him, “Bim can get Peevils out of Mark,” he clarifies to Dark.

“Ah, yes,” Dark says, looking at Bim, “I recall you removing Antisepticeye from Chrome some time ago.”

“Christ, did everyone know about that but me?” Dr. Iplier sighs under his breath.

Bim finally looks up from the Jims to turn to Dark, tears still on his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Bim says, voice still shaky, “I’m going to try. When we find her, that is.”

“She’s incredibly evasive,” Google says, barely suppressed anger in his voice, “She’s been one step ahead of us this entire day.”

“My aura didn’t find anyone else but you three,” Dark says. He believes it best to keep Amy’s presence at Ego Inc. to himself for now, lest the others get distracted or fearful. Such feelings won’t do them any good. “I wonder how many of us are left…” he continues, almost wistfully.

“Actually,” Dr. Iplier says, scratching the back of his neck, “I’ve developed a new power.” He looks away. “Whenever one of us dies, I can feel it.”

“I see,” Dark says, rather surprised but keeping it hidden, “Can you tell who?”

“No,” Dr. Iplier admits, “But at this point, it’s just process of elimination. Between the three of us we’ve seen almost everyone.” His expression is solemn. “The Jims were the last ones who were killed, and that was at least ten minutes ago now. Aside from the four of us,” he sighs, “There’s only one other ego left. It’s either Silver or Yandere, they’re the only ones we haven’t seen since this started.”

Dark finds that he hopes, very much, that Yandere is the one ego left.

“Well,” he says, rolling his neck the way he often does, preparing to use his power, “We can’t afford to waste any more time. I’m going to find Peevils.”

The others nod, and Bim finally lets go of the Jims to stand. He knows he needs to psyche himself up now, as once Dark takes him and the others to Peevils, he’ll have to get her out of Mark. He still doesn’t know if he can do it without killing Mark, but he knows that he has to try. He can’t let the people he’s lost be lost forever. Not Oliver, not Wilford, not the Jims. He has to believe that he can do it, he has to believe he has a chance.

Dark, meanwhile, closes his eyes again and sends his aura out again, crawling down the hall and up the stairwells to the fifth floor and down to the second floor, bypassing the third since he’s searched it already. His aura reaches the fifth floor first, pouring into the hallway and finding nothing, not even a body. He presses it further, sends it swarming into rooms, finding nothing but empty space. That is, until his aura slinks into Yandere’s dojo, where it finds two forms grappling in battle. One is unmistakable; a male silhouette only barely hiding the true form within it, a form that the aura determines to be a female figment. The other is not so immediately recognizable, but knowing which egos remain, it doesn’t have to be. Silver Shepherd could never move that fast. Dark feels something like pride knowing that Yandere has managed to last so long, and that he seems to be holding his own against Peevils in the fight. That is, until his form is thrown backwards, and Peevils’s form begins to simmer with rage. Dark calls his aura back, knowing that the sooner he and the others get to Yandere and Peevils, the better. His aura worms its way back to the stairwells and into the fourth floor, moving back into the room. It rushes back around Dark, swarming over his body and settling itself around him. Once it fully relaxes on him, Dark opens his eyes.

“She’s in Yandere’s dojo,” he tells the others, “Yandere’s there, too, trying to kill her.”

The others nod, and Dark gestures them closer. It’s easier to teleport multiple people, after all, when they’re closer together, and closer to Dark. Once the group has gathered, Dr. Iplier speaks up before Dark teleports them.

“Are you ready for this, Bim?” he asks. There’s sympathy coloring his voice, recognizing what Bim has lost.

“Yeah.” Bim nods. “I have to be, don’t I?” He manages a sad grin, which Dr. Iplier returns.

“You better get her out of Mark,” Google says, eyes flashing bright blue, “So I can destroy her.”

“If you all don’t _mind,_ ” Dark says, letting a bit of annoyance leak into his voice, “I’m going to take us to the dojo.”

The others nod, and a moment later, the Jims’ room is empty of living egos.

~~~

Peevils is tired of this.

She’s so close, there’s so few egos left, she’s nearly won. Yet, here’s Yandere, not even one of the oldest or strongest egos, about to undo all her hard work. She’s injured him, but not enough to slow him down, and he’s been landing too many blows of his own for Peevils’s liking. He’s too relentless, too willing to maim Mark to get Peevils out. Indeed, Peevils can feel Mark’s fear in her mind, feel his fear of what Yandere will do to expel her, coexisting with fear of what will happen if Yandere fails. Peevils can feel Mark’s body tiring, feel the injuries Wilford gave her earlier and the ones Yandere has given her now, feel the headache she’s given herself over the course of the day. There’s no way to use her words again, either; Yandere is never close enough for long with his intense speed, and at this point, he’s beyond listening. His eyes are flaming red and his face is stretched wide in an unhinged grin even as he runs at her, sword raised, and spits curses in Japanese and English both.

But there is one last trick she has up her sleeve. She’s kept it hidden this long, knowing that it poses an even higher risk of backfiring than her alien language, but she feels she no longer has a choice. She makes up her mind as Yandere brings his sword down again.

_“Enough!!”_ she roars, blocking Yandere’s blow, putting so much force behind the naginata in her hands that Yandere is thrown several feet back, stumbling and landing hard. Yandere huffs, all the wind knocked out of him.

“I did not get this far and spend all this time planning to let some pathetic little lovesick _brat,_ ” Peevils spits, “Ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for! Stop me from doing what I was _made_ to do!” She grins through her anger and tosses the naginata aside. “Well, unfortunately for you, I’m good at keeping secrets, and there’s one secret I haven’t let out yet.” She laughs. “You should feel _privileged,_ Yan; you get to see what I’ve been hiding all this time.”

Mark, with his thoughts connected to Peevils, already knows what she’s going to do, and fear spikes through him as Peevils speaks to Yandere.

_“No, no, please,”_   he gasps. He looks hopelessly through Peevils’s eyes at Yandere, who is still too winded to get up.

_“You sound cute when you beg,”_   Peevils giggles, _“But it’s not going to change a thing.”_

Peevils, after all, is an alien. While she may not look much like one, aside from her greenish skin, there’s another side to her, a form that she can control. A form not made for coexisting with a host, but Peevils is out of options.

So, she releases her form.

Mark screams in agony from within his mind as the changes happen from the inside out. Translucent claws push out through his fingernails, barbed spears of exoskeleton poke through his arms, scales break out over his face and neck. Insectoid mandibles break several teeth as they push out of his mouth, snapping at the air. Mark’s organs are shoved aside as two long insect limbs thrust out from his sides like the arms of a praying mantis, elegantly curved but wickedly sharp. Thin, iridescent wings like a dragonfly stab through his shoulder blades and unfurl from his back, glittering with his blood. Perhaps most painful and terrifying of all, slinky black tentacles break out below the wings, surrounding Mark’s spine, their writhing sending stabs of pain into the exit wounds they sit in. Mark’s shrieks peter off into silence as blood runs down his body from where each part of Peevils emerged, pooling on the ground below him. The pain and blood loss are too much for him to bear, and he’s left in a sort of unconsciousness, floating and unaware within himself.

But now that Peevils has her own form within him, the injuries on Mark’s body can’t hurt her anymore. Though her headache remains, she feels reinvigorated. As long as she finishes up quickly, she can accomplish her plan before Mark dies. Yes, this was a good idea. She experimentally flexes her new appendages, bends her new mantis-like arms, bites the air with her mandibles, flutters her wings, and waves her tentacles. Yandere looks on with horror.

After all, what better to defeat a young anime schoolgirl (or boy) than tentacles?

_“Kaibutsu,”_ Yandere gasps, awestruck and accusing.

“This is _much_ better,” Peevils sighs, blood dripping from her mouth. Her voice sounds much more like her own now, but it rattles and hisses from between her insectoid jaws. She tilts her head at Yandere. “You’re not _scared,_ are you, Yan?”

Yandere’s expression hardens, and he stands back up, sword in hand.

_“Kutabare,”_ he growls as he charges Peevils again.

But Peevils is much faster now that she has wings to help her move, and she dodges Yandere easily, one mantis arm jabbing at Yandere as she moves. It catches his side, making a gash there. Yandere yells in pain and fury and swings his katana at Peevils again. This time she shoots up and backward, wings beating so quick they become a buzzing blur. Her tentacles rise up behind her and shoot forward at Yandere. Were it one at a time, Yandere could cut them easily, but he only manages to slice off the end of one (which Peevils withdraws with a hiss of pain) before the rest wrap around his arms, his wrists, his legs, suspending him in the air. He screams and curses as he struggles, and Peevils is hit with an idea.

She was going to rip him apart, put now she has a much better plan.

She tightens the grip of the tentacle around Yandere’s wrist, forcing him to drop his katana. It doesn’t hit the ground, however, for Peevils’s remaining tentacle, the one Yandere injured, is there to grab it. Its hold is shaky, though, so Peevils brings it to her hands to take it, and lowers herself back to the ground, keeping Yandere strung up in the air. He realizes exactly what she plans to do and struggles all the more as Peevils’s tentacles draw him closer to her.

“Any last words?” Peevils asks, grinning.

Yandere spits in her face.

“Fine, be like that,” Peevils mutters.

She thrusts Yandere’s katana up and through, cutting into his gut and splitting his sternum, coming out his back through his spine. Yandere gasps as blood begins to pour. The wound is too severe for even his reality-bending powers to allow him a death speech. As the light fades from his eyes, a sound like a gust of wind rolls through the room, and the dojo becomes several degrees colder.

But the last thing Yandere hears before his consciousness fades is not that wind-like sound, but rather Dark’s thunderous roar of fury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:D
> 
> Insectoid is apparently not a word? Fight me, Microsoft.
> 
> Speaking of words Microsoft doesn't recognize, here's Yan's Japanese again:
> 
> Kaibutsu = Monster  
> Kutabare = Fuck you
> 
> I can't tell you when the next chapter will be out, but I'm excited as hell to write it. That's really all I can say without resorting to key-smashing. I hope I can get it out soon, and I hope you'll stick around for it!


	12. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you get everything you need?  
> Are you finished watching me bleed?  
> Did you think you could just walk away?  
> Did you think I'd just let you leave?  
> -In This Moment, "No Me Importa"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^That song is pretty much this chapter's theme song. Actually, it's pretty much Google's theme song for this whole fic (there's a lot of references to, like, technology and programming and stuff in the verses). I'm thinking of making a playlist for this fic, and if I do, this song'll definitely be on it.
> 
> I'll quit talking now and let you get to it; I know you guys are on the edge of your seat. Enjoy, perhaps!

Peevils yanks Yandereplier’s katana out of him, steps back, and lets his body fall. Dr. Iplier feels pain hammer in his chest. Bim is struck with cold fear at the changes in Mark’s body, and the anger Googleplier’s been holding back rushes into him at the sight of Peevils. Darkiplier is by Yandere’s body in an instant, so desperate to get to him that he teleports the few feet of distance instead of running. But he doesn’t need his aura’s ability to sense life to tell him that it’s too late; Yandere’s glassy, half-open eyes speak loud and clear.

Dark is frozen, yet his form vibrates with emotions he hasn’t felt in years. When was the last time he knew such despair? When was the last time he knew such loss? When was the last time he cared so much? How long has he cared about Yandere? He sees too late how easy it is to take one for granted if they’re always there. How easy it is to take one for granted when their love is so unconditional. How easy it is for reluctance to become tolerance, for tolerance to become fondness, for fondness to become love. How easy it is to push it down, to insist that one can’t feel love, that one doesn’t need love, that love will only make one weaker. How easy it is to ignore it when the other person will never be brave enough to address the elephant in the room. How easy it is to accept love now, when it’s far too late to do anything about it. How easy it is to love someone after they’re gone. But, too, how hard it is to bear losing the person one loves, how hard it is to admit that one never got the chance to make those unsaid words spoken, how hard it is to come to that person a moment too late to save them.

Something inside Dark breaks.

His form glitches and shatters with the sound of breaking glass. His aura swarms around him, as thick and loud as a hive of bees. Whatever monster that lurks beneath his shell stirs, violent, as blue and red dance in the air around him. A wave of emotion shoots out from him and chokes the room, so potent that Google shudders and gasps, Dr. Iplier’s eyes fill with tears, and Bim begins to cry. Even Peevils flinches with a sad, empty sensation she’s never felt before, a sensation she didn’t think she could experience at all.

Dark’s despair is out in the open for all to see, but he’s too distraught to care.

It takes many long moments for Dark to collect himself, to patch up his shell and contain the creature within, to settle his aura back around his shoulders. During those moments, no one moves, not even Peevils. None of them have seen Dark like this before. None of them know what to do or say. Even when Dark finally manages to get his form back to the way it was, he remains bent over Yandere, bangs obscuring the emotion still running wild in his eyes.

Naturally, Peevils is the first one to speak up.

“Sheesh,” she says, “I remember you telling me that Yan was just “convenient.” Wonder when that changed?”

Dark lifts his head to glare at her with a gaze that would send anyone else cowering.

“What have you done to Mark?” gasps Bim, no longer crying but still teary-eyed from the sight of Mark alone.

“I’ve upgraded, that’s all,” she answers with a smirk, “Not my fault Mark was in the way.” She peers at Google. “Surely _you_ know the value of a good upgrade, huh, Googs?”

Google’s eyes become metallic blue, and Dr. Iplier has to put an arm across his chest to stop him from moving forward.

“You can’t,” he says, staring at Mark’s body, the places where Peevils’s form hurt him, mentally calculating what sort of internal damage there might be and how long it will take to fix, “You can’t hurt Mark, not now.” Mark’s time is still mercifully blue, but it’s much too short; projecting only hours and shrinking faster than time is passing.

“That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” laughs Peevils. “You can either fight me and kill Mark yourselves, or you can sit here and watch him bleed out.” Peevils pauses. “Well, there’s a third option. I can kill you all.”

Bim’s heart is in his throat. He knows it’s time for him to act, he knows he has to do what he’s been saying he’ll do, what the others have been saying he’ll do, what he knows he has to do, but fear has gripped him tight and refuses to let go. He’s frozen, drowning in it. He knows he has to do something, he can’t just let anyone else die, he has to act, he has to _act,_ _for god’s sake he has to—_

The sound of footsteps distracts everyone. Five heads turn towards the entrance of the dojo. Five pairs of eyes watch someone walk in, someone with shaking hands and teary eyes.

“Mark,” murmurs Amy, arriving at last. She stares at the changes in him, the alien appendages sticking out unnaturally from his skin, the blood leaking from the holes they’ve made. She stares into his eyes and sees someone else, _something_ else, something evil and hungry and out for blood. She stares at his expression, watches it melt into an awful grin.

“Sorry, Mark’s not available at the moment,” Peevils says, and Amy hears the voice that comes from Mark’s throat, hissing like a snake, “Poor guy didn’t take too well to this form.”

“Amy, what are you _doing_ here??” Dr. Iplier cries. He rounds on Google. “You said she couldn’t get in!”

“I said it was _unlikely_ that she would get in,” Google mutters, “Not impossible.”

“Amy, you have to get out of here,” Bim gasps, “She’ll—”

“I’ll what?” asks Peevils, wings propelling her across the room to stand before Amy, “Kill her?” She laughs as Amy stares at her, wide-eyed and frozen. “That sure would be sad, wouldn’t it? Maybe I would, if Mark were awake to see it happen,” Peevils continues, lifting a hand and brushing it across Amy’s cheek, catching tears. Her grin is no less sharp. “You’re safe for now, Amy, don’t you worry.”

Amy, for her part, is appalled at the hand on her cheek, a hand that, for all the blood it’s shed by the one piloting it, is still a hand she knows, is still so familiar in the way it moves over her skin, is still _Mark’s._ It feels wrong having this hand on her face that she’s associated with love and comfort, this hand that is no better than a shell controlled by something cruel. It feels like cheating to have this monster putting Mark’s hand on her cheek and grinning at her like a wolf.

The others run towards Peevils, but they stop short. They fear what Peevils might do to Amy if they get too close, not quite trusting her earlier words. And Bim knows, not deep down but just under the surface of his skin, that this is his last chance to attack Peevils. She’s distracted, she’s still, her back is to him, and Bim knows he won’t get another opportunity this good. He can’t wait any longer. Oliver and Wilford and the Jims and everyone else can’t wait any longer.

He lifts his trembling hands out in front of himself. Light builds in his fingers. He takes a deep breath, and _pushes_.

Pushing is the first step. The light in his hands zips into Peevils’s mind, and she yelps as she feels it there.

“What the hell??” she growls, turning around. She spots Bim with his hands raised, and her eyes narrow. _“You.”_

Bim tries to ignore Peevils’s glare as he probes deeper, looking for the place where Mark and Peevils meet, the places where the connection is loose. Thanks to Peevils releasing her alien form, he finds places where her hold has slipped, where the gaps between Mark and Peevils are bigger. Bim’s power flows into those spaces, grabs hold, and _pulls_.

Pulling is the second step. And the hardest.

Peevils roars aloud, grabbing her head in pain. She glares at Bim with enough venom to kill.

“No you fucking _don’t,_ ” she mutters, voice warped and guttural.

She lunges for Bim, claws out. Bim cries out in surprise and dodges, scrambling to get out of her way. His hold on her mind loosens just a bit as his focus shifts, but he quickly tightens his grip.

“Grab her!” cries Amy, “If she hurts Bim—” She can’t continue.

It’s Dark and Google who move to grab her, each managing to take an arm. Peevils yells in anger and struggles, stabbing out her mantis limbs into Dark and Google’s abdomens. They wince and grit their teeth, but keep their hold on her. All the while, Bim keeps the energy pouring through and prying Peevils away from Mark.

Bim expects it to get easer once he reaches a certain point. When he separated Anti and Chrome, he only got a part of Anti’s mind apart from Chrome’s before the rest fell away with a gentle tug. But it seems that the parts of Peevils that Bim hasn’t gotten yet only cling tighter to Mark as he pulls more away. Sweat beads on his face as he fights against her, sending power under those tight edges and desperately pulling up, while using the same amount of power to keep the parts he already separated from falling back down. Peevils, in turn, writhes and screeches and slices at Dark and Google as she fights against Bim, pushing her mind up against Mark’s, trying to glue herself there.

It’s when Bim is halfway through that Mark comes back to himself, mind shirking at the sensation of something pulling and pushing. But he senses the light of that power, realizes that it’s forcing Peevils away. He looks through Peevils’s eyes again, eyes that belong to him more now than they have in a while. It’s through those eyes that he sees Amy, and the sight of her startles him out of his hazy state.

_“What’s she doing here??”_ he cries, _“Why is she here?? She can’t be here, she’s going to get hurt!”_

_“You’re awake, huh?”_ Peevils says, hearing him, _“Now that you are, I might hurt her after all.”_

The third voice is a surprise.

_“No you won’t,”_ Bim mutters internally, still working hard to draw Peevils away, _“Hang in there, Mark, this’ll be over soon.”_

_“It certainly will,”_ Peevils growls, still working hard to stay put.

Mark, for his part, is still staring at Amy, and his heart hurts from the sight of her. Her pretty face is dripping with tears and her form is shaking with fear, and Mark so desperately wants to reach out to her, let her know that he’s here, he’s _here, it’s okay, you’ll be okay it’s going to be okay—_

Amy finally sees the flicker in Peevils’s eyes, the flicker of the person who belongs there, a shine of something warm and familiar.

“Mark,” she whispers, like it’s the only word she knows.

Mark’s heart surges with something between love and sadness.

He can tell, now, that things are coming to a head. Bim is beginning to tire, run out of strength, yet he continues pulling bits of Peevils away. Peevils is nearly out of grip, almost completely pushed out, there just needs to be one more shove. Mark remembers everything that’s happened, everything she’s made him do, the faces so like his own of the people she made him murder, the guns and later the katana in his hands, the way she broke people before she killed them, the way she let out her alien form inside Mark, the way his body shines with pain even now, the things Peevils has taken from him and may have yet to take still, the people, including Amy, who still love him, still need him. Somewhere deep inside himself, Mark summons the last dregs of his strength, reaching into his heart for the clenching fear and sadness there and molding it into righteous anger.

_“I’m not letting you hurt anyone else anymore!”_ Mark yells at Peevils, _“GET OUT!!”_

He adds his own pushing to Bim’s pulling, and between them, Peevils knows she’s losing. Anger rushes through her, but she swallows it down to think. Mark and Bim are both on their last legs, and Peevils knows how to break them both.

First, she has to get away from Dark and Google, who are bleeding profusely but still holding onto her tight. She doubts either one alone could hold her back, and there’s a surefire way to get one of them to release her.

“Okay Google,” she says, sweet as pie, “Let me go.”

Google’s programming forces his hands from around Peevils’s arm, and he sees nothing but blue.

Dark, surprised, is easy enough to escape from, and Peevils’s wings move her to Bim with lightning speed.

She uses one last word, whispers it keenly into Bim’s ear. It’s the most powerful word she knows, so powerful it cannot be repeated. It’s a death word, the most potent that her language has to offer. The headache that’s plagued her all day becomes harder, harsher, pounding like a heartbeat. As always, it’s worth it. It’s worth it for the way Bim’s pupils dilate, for Mark’s stuttering gasp inside himself. But even as Bim’s heart stops and body pitches backwards, bright light engulfs Peevils, so bright the others in the room are forced to shield their eyes.

When the light fades, Bim is dead, and Mark and Peevils are apart at last.

Without Peevils to hold him up, Mark collapses like a puppet with cut strings. Amy cries out, and she and Dr. Iplier run for him.

Dark and Google, meanwhile, charge at Peevils.

“Okay Google, stop,” Peevils says with a grin. Even if she’s too badly hurt to risk using her language anymore, she hasn’t lost her gift for words.

Google lurches to a stop, stride cutting short. He almost can’t see through the bright furious blue coloring his vision. He wants nothing more than to grab Peevils and rip her into pieces for what she’s done but he _can’t_ , not even his intense anger can break him free of his programming.

Dark continues towards Peevils, aura reaching into her mind and pulling her apart at the seams. It’s easy for Dark to do; the death word has already ravaged Peevils’s brain for him. She screams with pain but still tries to fight, floating around as quick and jerky as a dragonfly, clawing and stabbing and grabbing at Dark. Weakened though she is, adrenaline and rage push her onward. As Dark evades her to the best of his ability, his aura, though still flooding Peevils’s mind, senses deep rage somewhere close. He glances to the side and sees Google, eyes so blue they’re almost blinding. Dark could kill Peevils on his own, but he finds himself interested in what Google might do.

After all, how often does a machine lose itself to emotion?

“Google,” Dark says as he grapples with Peevils, “I believe I can turn off your primary objective if you let me in.”

Google, at any other time, would be overwhelmingly suspicious. Even through his overpowering anger, there’s still a part of him that wonders what Dark’s motives might be, wonders how bad an idea it would be to let Dark in, wonders if Dark can even disable his primary objective at all. But Google is almost literally blinded by rage, and if letting Dark in allows him even a small chance of being able to destroy Peevils, then so be it.

“Do it,” he says.

Dark sends out a particularly brutal wave against Peevils, one that knocks her out of the air and leaves her hunched over on the floor, trying to think past the ringing in her skull.

In the next moment, he’s in Google’s mind.

Though still undoubtedly a sentient brain, it is fundamentally mechanical, and it therefore takes him a few moments to find Google’s primary objective among the neurons and wires and get it to shut off. He shuts off Google’s secondary objective as well; leaving it on would only spell disaster. Instead of pushing into Google’s limbs and controlling him from the inside, he hangs back inside Google’s mind, ready to watch the show.

With both his objectives stopped, Google is free to do as he wishes. And what he wishes is to tear Peevils into pieces.

Peevils has only barely gotten up when Google grabs her by the neck and slams her against the wall, pushing her into the ground. His eyes are more blue than ever, and Peevils knows it’d be a fool’s errand to try and possess him, especially with Dark already inside. Yet, she laughs, throwing her head back with the force of it, cackling high and loud, echoing in the wide space of the dojo.

“What the hell is so funny?” Google growls, squeezing her neck tighter. It stutters her laugh into a cough, but Peevils continues to smile.

“Maybe you don’t know this, Googs,” she says, “But I’m pretty good with words. Dark’s already in your head, he can fill you in. It’s how I was able to do this in the first place.” Unable to lean forward, she simply inclines her head towards Google, as though she were letting him in on a secret. “That word I used just now to kill Bim? Mark heard it, too. It doesn’t matter what Dr. Iplier does, Mark’s _done for._ ”

“So are you,” Google mutters, trying to ignore the spike of ugly emotion that runs through both him and Dark at Peevils’s words, “I’m going to kill you. You’ve lost.”

“Have I?” Peevils asks, eyes flashing, “You’re a figment, just like me. You can kill me, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just be back in a week or so. By then, Mark’ll be dead, and eventually the rest of you will fade.”

“So will you,” Google says, brows furrowing, “Do you think Amy will replace Mark on YouTube? It’ll be the last thing on her mind. If the fans forget us, the ones who’ve been here for years, then they’ll definitely forget you, too.”

“I suppose,” Peevils replies, shrugging, “But at least I’ll have gone out with a bang, and have fulfilled one of my goals.” Her grin is as sharp as the spikes up her arms. “And look on the bright side, Googs,” she continues, “You won’t miss your brothers anymore when you’re dead.”

Google decides he’s heard enough.

He punches Peevils across the face, once, twice, again and again. Blood fills her mouth, her jawbone snaps and splinters, teeth crack and fly out of her mouth or get accidentally swallowed. Her eyes swell shut, her nose breaks inward, and each punch whips her head around so forcefully her already-injured brain runs up against her skull, bouncing from side to side, blood vessels popping. She’s unconscious by the time the punches start to break through her temple and send bone into her brain, and she’s dead moments after that, but Google doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He keeps punching, his fists fracturing, denting, then breaking through Peevils’s skull. He can hardly see; the blue in his eyes is layered with red now, casting a sickly purple pall over everything he sees, and Dark’s aura is ringing in his mind, and he can’t think of anything but how much he hates Peevils, how much he hates her for taking everything from him and not even being afraid in the face of her death, not even being afraid of fading forever, and all Google knows is that he has to make her pay, that he has to ruin her for what she’s done, for everyone she’s hurt, for everyone she’s killed.

For Plus.

_Crack._

For Chrome.

_Crunch._

For Oliver.

_Squelch._

“I believe that’s enough,” Dark says, a small amount of disgust in his voice, “You’ve already killed her many times over.”

Google blinks with surprise, because Dark is speaking from beside him, not from inside his own head. He hadn’t noticed Dark leaving his mind, hadn’t felt his objectives coming back online. Even now, he can’t feel much, looking at Peevils. It’s no wonder he could hardly see before; his glasses are splattered with her blood. Even allowing that, though, Peevils doesn’t look herself anymore, or like anything at all. Her face and head are nothing but blood, flecks of bone, and torn-up flesh. Google thinks he can see one of her black eyes, half-open and swollen, in the mess, but even his advanced systems can’t determine if it’s really an eye or just a ragged clot of blood. Google realizes his hands hurt, and looks at them to find his knuckles nearly scraped clean of skin, dripping with oil and Peevils’s blood, peppered with bits of gray matter.

He turns away from Peevils, looking over his shoulder at the others. At Mark, still and pale on the floor. At Amy, tears still running down her cheeks, Mark’s head in her lap. At Dr. Iplier, pressing gauze into the worst of his wounds, gaze focused and determined yet constantly darting upward, towards where Mark’s time must be.

Google recalls that of all the things Peevils has done today, bluffing was not one of them. He’s suddenly very tired.

“What now?” he asks, maybe to Dark, maybe to himself, maybe to no one at all. Dark chooses to answer.

“I’m putting Peevils in my void,” he says, “I can keep her there indefinitely until we figure out what to do with her. Then I’m taking the rest of us to the clinic.”

Google nods. He finally stands up as Dark steps closer to Peevils. Her body vanishes in a puff of smoke, and Google and Dark walk to the others. Amy looks up at them first, sees the mess of Google’s knuckles, bites her lip and nods. It’s too soon to truly be happy that Peevils is gone, not in the near-silence of the dojo, punctuated only by Mark’s fluttery, weak breathing. Dr. Iplier senses the others there but continues to focus on Mark’s injuries, figuring out which ones will need addressing first, how many stitches the wounds will need, how much blood he’ll have to transfuse into Mark before he stops looking so pale.

“I’m taking us to the clinic,” Dark says by way of warning. Amy and Dr. Iplier nod. There’s nothing more to be said as Dark spirits them through his void and into the clinic.

Once there, Dr. Iplier is a whirlwind. His fear and worry are smothered by professionalism and protocol, and the others find themselves swept up in it.

“Help me lift him,” he says to Google, and Google does.

“Wait out here, it’ll be a while,” he says to Dark and Amy, and they do.

“I’ll take care of you and Dark later,” he says to Google on they’re in the operating room, “But for now, there’s bandages in the waiting room if you want them.” He pulls on surgical scrubs, slips a surgical mask over his face. “I’ll come back with an update when I can.”

All Google can do is recognize the dismissal, nod, and join Dark and Amy in the waiting room.

The bandages are in a plainly labeled cabinet, but he doesn’t go for them. Dark doesn’t either. Amy is out of tears for the moment, sitting stiffly in a plastic chair. Dark stands, hands clasped behind his back, looking as he always does from the neck-down, but his eyes betray the deep emotion that spilled forth from his shell earlier in the day. Google stands for a while, eventually sits, feels his battery power winding down but doesn’t want to return to the control room to charge, eventually forces himself to leave and retreat to his room, and where he’d normally sleep as his cord feeds power into his system, he finds sleep impossible with two of his brothers dead in the next room. Amy and Dark are left alone after that, and Amy can’t find it in herself to be nervous about it, can’t find it in herself to be afraid of Dark, can’t find it within herself to feel much of anything at all. Dark, meanwhile, wishes he could be so numb, wishes anger and hate and despair weren’t boiling and rolling through him in waves, wishes his shell would stop cracking every few seconds, wishes he could detach his focus from the spot in his void where Peevils resides. But he can’t stop feeling, can’t stop cracking, can’t stop thinking about where Peevils is in his void, can’t stop thinking about how she’ll be back in a week and everything Dark knows might be gone.

In their own ways, Google, Dark, and Amy wait as Dr. Iplier puts Mark back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've defeated Peevils, but at what cost? Guess we'll find out in the future :3c


	13. Interim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And to those who die please try to understand  
> That for those who die we try the best we can  
> With our one foot in the grave  
> While the other one's kickin' its way  
> Right down to hell."  
> -The Dear Hunter, "Go Get Your Gun"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jebus, I sure took my sweet time with this one, didn't I? Sorry about that, this chapter was a bitch to write for some reason. Maybe because there's some other humans who make an appearance? W/e. Enjoy!

It takes Amy a few hours to realize that she and Darkiplier aren’t the only ones in the waiting room.

It isn’t that she doesn’t see the stretcher towards the front of the room, but rather that she doesn’t see the black mop of hair mostly hidden beneath the sheet until she starts looking around the clinic, starts trying to think again. But once she knows there’s someone there, she can’t stop staring, and can’t help but notice the strange way he seems to…shift. Sometimes she can’t see the black hair sticking out from under the sheet, and a moment later it’s there again, on and off. It’s confusing, but she isn’t sure she wants to ask about it.

She ends up finding out anyway when Googleplier returns, still many hours short of a full charge but unable to sit alone in the control room any longer. He sees Amy staring at the person in the stretcher, and glowers a little before looking at the person himself, sad fondness in his eyes. Amy instantly realizes that it’s another Google under that sheet, and that thought is enough to make her curiosity win out and send her out of her chair and towards the stretcher.

It’s Oliver, and seeing him hurts, because he was always the Google who liked her best, and she’d be lying if she said he wasn’t her favorite Google in return. He could pass for simply being powered down if not for the oil in and around his mouth, staining his teeth and chin. Not to mention what is form is doing. Up close, Amy can see that his body is changing every second from solid to transparent, tangible to immaterial, back and forth like a broken lightbulb.

“What’s happening to him?” she asks, and her voice sounds hoarse from the tears she’d shed the last time she’d spoken.

“He’s flickering,” Google answers through gritted teeth, “If Mark dies, he’ll fade completely, and so will everyone else Peevils killed.”

Amy shudders. So this is how figments die.

“Speaking of Peevils,” says Dark from across the room, “Perhaps we ought to figure out what to do with her.”

“Can’t you just keep her in your void?” Amy asks.

“I can,” Dark concedes, “But if I were ever injured or killed, one of which I’m sure will happen at some point in the future, there’s a chance she could escape.”

“Well, I’m her original,” Amy says, thinking, “What if I killed her?”

“I doubt you could ever kill anyone, my dear,” Dark says, derisive, “And besides, it’s not that simple. You didn’t create her, your and Mark’s fans did. The only way she can die permanently is through being forgotten.”

Amy bristles as the pet name, but has to admit to herself that Dark is right on all counts.

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Google says, “She may have novelty on her side, but that can only get her so far.” His expression tightens. “There’s been plenty of figments of Mark’s that have lasted as long as she has and faded away suddenly not long after.”

Dark lets out a short, angry sigh remembering the egos he couldn’t keep alive despite his efforts, and Amy’s eyes widen. It’s never occurred to her that Mark’s fans might have made characters where Mark hadn’t intended, and that they might have forgotten them so soon after. She wonders if Mark knows. She wonders if that matters, now.

“Are you suggesting we just wait?” Amy asks, “Do you think that would work?”

“Perhaps,” Dark says, “But I doubt we can be certain. Peevils’s creation was a long time coming.” He gives a bitter grin. “Mark’s fans have been creating Peevils since you and Mark revealed your relationship. Seems as though dark sides are popular these days.”

“So we have to make people forget her,” Amy says.

“You say that like it’d be easy,” Google interjects, “And it certainly wouldn’t be. The internet remembers everything, no matter what it is.”

“So what if…” Amy continues, thinking, “…What if we gave the fans something else to remember?”

“How do you mean?” Dark asks, head tilting with interest.

“I mean,” Amy goes on, “We come up with a new idea for a character, or bring more attention to the ones who already exist.” She winces a bit as a thought occurs to her. “We can’t really do either without Mark, but once he gets better, he can come up with something new, or give you guys your own videos. Maybe the fans’ll be so excited to see you guys they’ll forget about Peevils.”

Google and Dark both consider.

“That’s…actually a good idea,” Google says.

“Indeed,” Dark says, “If I may, I rather like the idea of Mark giving each of us who already exist a video.” He grins. “I’m sure you understand.”

“It’d take much longer than creating a new character,” Google says, “But it has a higher chance of being more successful in the long run.”

For another hour, there’s silence. The idea that Mark’s recovery isn’t a given is not brought up, not even implied, but all three are thinking it. Of course, if Mark doesn’t survive, Peevils will fade away eventually, whether the remaining egos make an effort to facilitate it or not. None of them want to consider that alternative, and Amy, for her part, tries to think of anything but. This is how an unrelated thought springs to her mind.

“Oh my god,” she says suddenly, “It’s getting late, and Chica…someone has to feed her.”

Google almost says something sarcastic about Amy’s priorities, but holds it back.

“I can take you to Mark’s home,” Dark says, trying not to think of what happened the last time he was there.

“Yeah,” Amy says, “Please.” She looks over at Google. “We’ll be back soon.”

Google nods, and Dark whisks Amy through his void and into Mark’s apartment.

Chica hears them arrive, and Amy soon hears her claws tapping the floor as she scampers towards her.

“Hey, Chica,” Amy coos, unable to resist leaning down to pet her. Chica turns big brown eyes up towards Amy, covering her face in doggy kisses and relishing in her attention, before intensely sniffing her hands and leaning down to sniff her thighs. Amy is about to wonder why aloud when it hits her that those are the places on her that have Mark’s scent, from when she held his head on her lap as Dr. Iplier worked on him in the dojo. Suddenly she chokes up, nearly ready to cry again.

As she tries to compose herself, Chica moves on from her to regard Dark with cautious eyes. The dog has never fully trusted Dark; no doubt because he smells so much like her owner but just off enough, and perhaps also because of his oppressive aura that Chica can no doubt sense better than a human can. But today, Dark’s aura is stuck close to him, tumultuous and angry but closed-off in despair not yet faded. Chica approaches him, wary but with her head held high. Dark never has any interest in humoring the creature, so he isn’t quite sure why he holds out a hand for her to sniff. She does, and gives his hand a gentle lick before walking away into the apartment.

“It’s time to feed you, honey-pup,” Amy says to the dog as she walks past her, before moving into the kitchen where she knows the dog food is kept. She already knows how Mark feeds her, and it’s an easy task to complete. But it feels strange walking around Mark’s apartment like this, going through his kitchen and taking care of his dog with him gone. Amy almost feels like she’s doing something wrong in being here, like it’s an invasion of privacy. All at once a thought runs through her head, a thought that if Mark doesn’t make it then someone else will have to take care of Chica, and that gets the tears brewing from minutes earlier overflowing. Chica looks between Amy and her dinner, hungry but concerned, and doesn’t go for her food until Amy manages to give Chica a teary smile and a weak pat on the head.

Amy hears Dark approach her but can’t even acknowledge him through her sobs. She gasps when she feels something settle around her, something heavy and cool like smoke. But Dark’s aura is somehow gentle, curling over her less like a python and more like a blanket, strangely comforting as it seeps into her bones. Her tears eventually peter off and stop, and she finally looks at Dark as he retracts his aura back to himself.

“Thank you,” Amy whispers.

“…You’re welcome,” Dark replies, slightly awkward. “Shall we go back?” He asks.

Amy nods. She wonders if someone ought to stay with Chica overnight. She wonders if it should be her. She wonders if she’ll be able to tear herself away from Mark’s side once Dr. Iplier lets her see him.

Once they go back, the waiting begins anew. In Dark and Amy’s absence, Google has pulled up a chair beside Oliver’s stretcher and sits there, stiff, holding Oliver’s hand in his own but not looking at it, not looking at anything. Amy sits in the same chair she was in before, and Dark stands off to the side, apparently still not wanting to sit down. Amy wonders if he’s tired, but then again, the slashing injuries Peevils gave him earlier are beginning to close up. Google seems to be healing as well; his knuckles are beginning to regrow their synthetic skin, and his side, while not as healed as Dark’s, is much better than it was back in the dojo. Amy had already known about their healing abilities, but had never before truly seen it in action. She’d never wanted them to be hurt enough to see it.

The silence is pierced when Amy’s phone starts ringing, making her jump in alarm. Dark and Google swivel their heads towards her. Amy takes out her phone and almost grimaces at the caller ID.

“It’s Tyler,” she sighs, “I have to answer.”

Dark and Google say nothing in response as Amy taps the “accept” button and brings the phone to her ear.

“Hey,” she says, trying to sound better than she feels. She doesn’t do a very good job.

“Hi, Amy,” Tyler says, a note of concern in his voice, “Is…something going on? Ethan and I have been trying to get in touch with Mark for a few hours now without any luck, and you don’t sound so good…”

Of course. Mark’s phone is either in Dr. Iplier’s operating room or back in Mark’s apartment. He makes it a point to be reachable for his friends, and even when he’s too busy to answer a phone call he almost always fires off a quick text promising to call back later.

Amy pauses. She has no idea what to tell Tyler. He knows about the egos, sure, so do most of Mark’s friends. But he doesn’t know them as well as Amy does, and he’s never quite been on board with having numerous versions of his childhood friend running around. And Peevils? Tyler never met her at all. He heard about her from Mark, but there was never an introduction. The only humans Peevils ever met were Amy and Mark, and Kathryn from the night she first appeared. Amy doesn’t know how Tyler will react to what happened. But then, how could she lie to him? How could she hide the truth? Tyler’s known Mark longer than she is, he’s one of his oldest friends, he has a right to know what’s going on.

So she takes in a breath.

“It’s…it’s a long story,” she begins.

But she tells it. She tells it as much as she knows it, from Dr. Iplier’s phone call to her to breaking into Ego Inc. to the fight in the dojo. She starts crying again as she tries to find the words to describe what Peevils did to Mark’s body.

“It was like something out of a horror movie,” she sobs, “H-He hardly looked like a human anymore.”

She goes on to tell Tyler how the fight ended, where Peevils is now, and how Dr. Iplier is still working on Mark.

“I should’ve called you,” she finishes, “But it was…it was the furthest thing from my mind.”

There’s a very long pause from Tyler’s end. Amy has an idea of how he feels.

“No, I get it, it’s…” Tyler starts, “…It’s a lot. It’s… _fuck._ ” His voice is hard yet sounds just moments from breaking.

“Yeah,” Amy sniffles.

There’s another pause, shorter than before, as Tyler collects himself.

“I’m getting Ethan, and Kathryn, too, and we’re heading over there,” he finally says, resolute.

“Tyler—” Amy begins.

“We’re coming,” Tyler insists, “We have to. Mark…” He sighs. “…We have to be there for Mark. We have to be there for _you_. I’m getting the others and telling them what’s going on and then we’re coming over there.”

Amy suddenly realizes how much she wants someone to lean on right now.

“Okay,” she relents, “Just, getting in might be weird, with the lockdown at all, unless Google fixes it…”

“We’ll go through the window you broke if we have to,” Tyler says, “If…if Dr. Iplier gets done with Mark’s surgery before we get there, call one of us and let us know.”

“I will,” Amy promises, “And you call when you get here, one of us should meet you and take you to the clinic.” Amy doesn’t say it’s so they don’t have to stumble upon the bodies Peevils left, but the implication hangs in the air.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Tyler answers.

“I’ll see you soon, Tyler.”

“See you, Amy.” Tyler’s sad smile is practically audible through the phone.

If Amy knows Tyler, she knows he probably breaks down as soon as she ends the call. The thought puts tears in her eyes again. She wonders how much she has to cry before she can’t anymore.

“Tyler’s coming?” Dark asks.

“So are Ethan and Kathryn,” Amy answers, “Tyler’s gonna tell them everything.”

No one says anything else as more time passes, day melts into night, and Dr. Iplier doesn’t emerge from the operating room. Google knows he ought to go back to the control room and disable the lockdown so Tyler and the others can get in, but he can’t bring himself to get up and let go of Oliver’s hand. It’s too light in his grip, and part of him fears that it’ll suddenly disappear as he holds it along with the rest of Oliver, along with Plus and Chrome. Dark can’t stop thinking about how after everything, after all the hours spent bringing fading egos back from the brink, they could all be lost in one fell swoop if Mark doesn’t recover. He can’t ignore the gnawing voice in his mind telling him that it’s his fault, that he could’ve stopped Peevils before she had a chance to hurt anyone, but he tries. His mind keeps going back to the morning, to Peevils coming into his office, and trying to think of ways he could’ve stopped her, moments he could’ve taken advantage of. He thinks of other things, too; he thinks of noisy hallways and unproductive meetings and the Host glancing at him with unease and Wilford fighting his decisions at every turn and Yandere following him around like a duckling and how he hardly ever seemed to get a moment of peace but what he would give to have it all back, what he would give to have it within his powers to turn back the hours and bring things back to normal, what he would give to have anything but this awful empty silence. As for Amy, all she does is continuously catch herself wondering what life would be like without Mark and all the things that would have to be resolved and continuously push the thoughts out of her mind before eventually wandering back to them again.

Amy’s phone finally rings again after two long hours of waiting, waiting for anything.

“We’re here,” Tyler says.

“Okay,” Amy says, “Someone’ll be right down.”

“I’ll get them,” Dark offers as Amy hangs up, “That’s the fastest way.”

Amy nods, and Dark disappears before she can try to thank him. It’s strange, having him on her side.

The next moment, he’s back, and Tyler, Ethan and Kathryn are there with him. Amy stands up from her chair and starts to greet them, but doesn’t get very far before the three of them surround her in a hug.

It should be comforting, and it is; Amy feels so much lighter with her friends beside her, but there’s a somber undercurrent of sadness to their comfort. She can sense how they feel from their arms around her, she can sense the tightness in Tyler’s limbs, she can sense the limpness in Kathryn’s, she can sense the slight tremor in Ethan’s. She wants to say something, anything, but she can’t get her mouth to work.

In the end, she doesn’t have to, because it’s then that Dr. Iplier finally emerges from the operating room. He’s gotten out of his bloody scrubs but even without them it’s clear that he’s done something significant; he walks like there’s bricks on his feet, his face is drawn with fatigue and covered with sweat. His eyes widen with surprise as he sees Amy’s friends.

“Ah,” he says, “I guess I should’ve expected you all to come by.”

They all let go of Amy to look at Dr. Iplier with rapt attention, as do Amy, Dark, and Google.

“Well?” asks Tyler, voice as tight as his body language, “Is Mark okay?”

“Mark’s alive,” answers Dr. Iplier, “But he’s not out of the woods yet. His time…” He shakes his head. “His time’s been acting like it’s about to be set for hours. It winds down to almost nothing and then shoots back up. There’s no rhyme or reason to it; it seemed to happen no matter what I was doing or what I was fixing. And I was able to fix everything,” he clarifies, “He hasn’t lost any limbs, there weren’t any organs injured beyond repair, but there was a significant amount of tissue damage. The strangeness in his time aside, he’s still in terrible shape. If he hasn’t shown any signs of recovery twenty-four hours from now, well, he might not be alive anymore at that point.”

There are times, not often but they do happen, when Dr. Iplier wishes he could tamp down his instinct to be blunt with others. Dr. Iplier wishes so now, as he watches the others flinch at his words.

“Can we see him?” Amy asks.

“Yes,” Dr. Iplier answers, “Not for too long, though, since there’s so many of you.”

So they file in, and Amy doesn’t have the strength anymore to gasp but her heart stutters at the sight of Mark, still and quiet in a hospital bed, stuck full of IV needles, an oxygen mask over his face next to bandages on his cheeks, more bandages up his arms and his sides, the heart monitor beeping beside him, and Amy has no idea what it’s supposed to sound like but she feels so acutely like it’s beeping the wrong way. The others gather around her and notice the same things on Mark she does, and Tyler thinks of how none of the times he saw Mark in the hospital before were ever as bad as this, and Ethan wonders how he went from backflipping for Mark at conventions to becoming his friend to standing here maybe watching him die, and Kathryn’s mind jumps from one moment to the next, going through the countless moments she had working with Mark and everyone else, too, because she knows that things might never be the same for any of them.

The longer Amy stands looking at Mark with dry eyes the more she thinks she’s run out of tears at last. But then Ethan starts crying like a dripping faucet, quiet spurts of sobs. Tyler follows close behind, his own sobs much louder and harsher, like they’re ripping at his throat on their way out. Kathryn’s crying too before long, sobs drawn-out and wavering like a mournful song. Finally, Amy joins them, tired and hoarse but crying hard all the same.

Somehow, after that, time moves quickly. It seems like the next thing Amy knows, the others are starting to leave and Dr. Iplier is insisting she go with them.

“But I can’t just—” Amy starts.

“Amy.” Dr. Iplier stops her, less so with his voice and more with the look on his face. “I promise you I’ll look after Mark. If _anything_ at all happens, I’ll be right there, and I’ll let you know the moment I can. You need to go home and get some rest.”

Amy eventually relents, because if she’s being honest with herself she’s beyond tired. It’s so late into the night it’s almost morning by the time she’s home, Kathryn having driven the two of them there. Tyler and Ethan go back in Tyler’s car, and Amy wonders what they must be feeling, knowing now why Mark didn’t answer their calls during the day. Amy wonders how Kathryn feels, having known nothing about the situation until Tyler called her just hours ago.

Amy wonders if how her friends feel is any better or worse than how she feels, or if it’s just different kinds of the same crushing sadness, or if it even matters at all, in the wake of what Peevils wrought.

~~~

The next two days are, technically speaking, uneventful, but they’re long and tiring all the same.

Amy and her friends spend them trying not to fall apart, trying to hold out hope and keep going with their lives. They all know Mark well enough to know that he wouldn’t want them to sit around crying over him, but it’s hard not to. But they all have obligations, and they all do their best to fulfill them, hanging onto every call from Dr. Iplier.

Ethan quickly offers to look after Chica until Mark gets better, and the others would be lying if they said they weren’t glad to have one less thing to worry about. After all, they do have to worry about the fans, about what they’re going to say if it takes Mark too long to get better, or if he doesn’t get better. They know they won’t be on social media much until things change, none of them can even think about it now. They know fans will suspect something if Mark’s closest friends all make tweets about a personal problem making them step back from social media but Mark stays silent. In the end, though, they realize it’s a risk they have to take.

One day, Amy’s phone rings but it’s not Dr. Iplier, and the caller ID surprises her. But she answers anyway, because the person calling happens to be one of the only other people who can know the truth of the situation.

“Hi, Sean,” she says, trying not to sound completely despondent.

“Hey, Amy,” he replies, voice warm, “Whoosh and I saw yer and the others’ tweets from earlier, an’ well…” His voice becomes awkward, unsure of how to say what he wants to say.

“You’re wondering why we all said something but Mark didn’t?” Amy asks.

“Yeah,” Sean answers, a little embarrassed, “We don’t wanna pry or anythin’, we’re just a little worried, ya know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Amy assures him, “We figured people would notice, anyway. It’s not really something…something we can explain to most people.”

“Ah,” Sean says, “I guess that means us, too? It’s okay if it does.”

“Actually…” Amy begins.

After all, Sean has his own egos that he has to deal with. If anyone can empathize or give some advice, it’s him. It’s a little easier to tell the story the second time, but it’s not any easier to bear the horrified silence on the other end of the line when she’s done telling it.

“God, Amy, that’s awful,” Sean finally gasps, “I’m…I’m so sorry.”

“Sean,” she whispers, “How do you deal with things like this? How do you stand it?”

They both know what she means.

“Well, it’s…different for me,” Sean admits, “You an’ Mark are way more involved with your egos than Signe and I are with mine. I don’t even know where mine live, ta be honest.” A nervous, breathy chuckle. “I mean, I’ve only ever really met Anti and Dr. Schneeplestein, an’ ya know how those meetings turned out.” He sighs. “Guess what I mean ta say is that ya probably know how ta deal with stuff like this better than I do.”

“I guess so,” Amy answers, feeling a bit let down.

“But Amy,” Sean continues, voice becoming urgent, “If ya need anythin’, _anythin’_ at all, just let me or Signe know. An’ that goes fer Tyler and Ethan and Kathryn, too. Hell, even if ya need us to come over there, we’ll figure somethin’ out. Don’t hesitate to ask fer anythin’.”

“That totally won’t be necessary,” Amy insists, but finds herself smiling at Sean’s kindess all the same, “But thank you for offering. I’ll keep you guys updated on what’s happening.”

“Thanks,” Sean replies, and Amy can hear the note in his voice like she answered a question he was about to ask, “I hope everythin’ turns out alright.”

“So do I,” Amy sighs, “Talk to you later?”

“Of course, anytime,” Sean answers, “Take care.”

“Thank you, Sean. Bye,” Amy says before ending the call.

Meanwhile, Tyler fields calls from Bob and Wade, Ethan goes between attempting to film and taking care of Chica, and Kathryn tries to keep working, and Amy ends up being the one who visits Mark the most, the one with the most time to do it, the one who thinks she can handle seeing him, the one who thinks she can handle walking into a building filled with death and three beleaguered beings trying just as hard as the humans to keep themselves together.

Dr. Iplier spends the two days endlessly monitoring Mark, not that’s much more to do around Ego Inc. now that there’s so few of them left. Mark’s time of death continues to defy logic as he makes it past the twenty-four hour mark without any changes. He practically waits for the timer to turn red but it never does, but it never gets higher than a few hours, either. It’s like nothing Dr. Iplier’s seen before, but Mark’s condition is stable, so there’s nothing he can do about it.

There’s nothing he can do about the other egos either, the ones he knows are flickering in and out of existence like Oliver is. He does move Oliver into a patient room, though. He knows he should do the same for the other egos; collect them from around the building, have them all in one place for (when, if, when, if, whenifwhenifwhenif) Mark wakes up. After all, Dr. Iplier always looks after the egos when they get themselves killed, and makes sure they’re alright when they wake back up again. But he can’t bring himself to look for bodies, and can’t bring himself to ask Dark or Google for help. Besides, it’s not as if he could help them stop flickering, it’s not as if he could fix them with Mark still hanging between life and death.

Dr. Iplier isn’t used to feeling helpless.

Google, meanwhile, spends the time fixing things. He manages to go back into the control room and reboot the security system, disengage the lockdown. He screws the vent cover back to the ceiling, does the same for the vent in the studio (he tries not to glance at Wilford as he walks past him to the stage). He even repairs the glass window that Amy had to break. He finds he can’t sit still any longer, and even if he’s alone he can still repair things that are broken. He tries to remind himself that he was by himself for years, that for years he was the only Google and he was perfectly fine with that (he tries not to think about how quickly he realized that he prefers to be with others like him rather than be alone).

He eventually gets around to looking at the elevator, despite knowing it’s the one thing he can’t fix on his own. It’s too big and too badly damaged for him to be able to completely fix by himself, but he wants to keep moving and keep fixing so he goes to do it anyway. He finds the elevator in the basement, and starts cleaning up rubble and debris. It doesn’t take him long to find Silver in the elevator carriage, form pulsating in and out, and it feels like the answer to a question he didn’t want to ask. He can’t help but notice that his mask is pulled down, no longer over his face, but after everything, he’s unable to muster up enough anger to put blue in his eyes. He realizes he’s just tired. Cold. Numb. Like an android is supposed to be. Like an android, in light of all Google’s felt these past few days, maybe should be.

He at least pulls Silver’s mask back over his face before he leaves.

Dark locks himself in his office and tries to keep the monster in his skin under control, tries to keep his shell from cracking open and spilling himself out. He curses Peevils, curses himself, even curses Mark because it’s habit by now and it’s easy to do, it was always easy to blame Mark when an ego disappeared into the air and it’s easy to blame him for the fading egos all over the building now. He doesn’t let himself go into his void and mutilate Peevils, the only dead figment who isn’t flickering, but he wants to. He doesn’t let himself go to the dojo or Wilford’s studio, but that’s not as difficult because he knows that if he lets himself see Yandere or Wilford again then he won’t be able to keep his shell together. There’s nothing to do but curse and spit and force his cracks closed and wait for news on Mark’s condition to change.

And the egos Peevils killed? They’re in the same limbo a figment finds themself in when they aren’t permanently dead or in danger of becoming so. Granted, Peevils is there, too, but it’s not something they know about, not something that could matter. The egos spend two days falling through an empty blackness as thick as ink. There’s nothing but torturous pain wherever Peevils’s dealt her final blow against them, nothing but memory, reliving their death over and over. They aren’t even near each other, they aren’t close enough to reach out and even if they were they wouldn’t be able to, not any more than they’re able to remove the phantom bullets from their skulls (or the sword from their chest, or the splitting headache from their mind). It’s a place where time doesn’t make sense, where the figments are eternally there, eternally floating, eternally hurting. For those two days, they feel enough pain for a lifetime.

On the third day, Mark wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :0 !!!
> 
> I almost ended this chapter with another cliffhanger, but then I thought that'd be too mean considering how long I kept y'all waiting for it. Also...can you tell I don't know nearly as much about Kathryn as I do about Ethan and Tyler? ._.
> 
> As you can see from the updated chapter count, this fic's nearly over now, and boy howdy I'm excited for the last couple chapters. Hope you guys stick around for them!


	14. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And sing for me softly, love, your song for tomorrow  
> And tell me my name's the one that's hidden in there somewhere"  
> -Go Radio, "Goodnight Moon"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVED BITCH
> 
> Seriously, I am SO SORRY this took so long. I totally didn't intend for that to happen. As much as I love this story, I've got some serious fic fatigue. But I didn't let it stop me from putting out this chapter, and I won't let it stop me from finishing this behemoth.
> 
> Speaking of behemoth, this chapter is about three times longer than usual. Hope that, along with the events of this chapter, makes up for the two month wait I put y'all through ;w;
> 
> Happy reading! And I mean that seriously, for once :p

Amy’s the one who notices Mark start to rouse himself with back-of-the-throat mumbles and fluttery eyelids, and all the emotions that surge up in her make her frozen for a long moment. Once she can think again, she feels joy heating her up from the inside out.

“Doc, he’s waking up!” she calls, unable to keep the happy laughter out of her voice.

Dr. Iplier dashes in from the next room, having opted to let Amy see Mark alone. He comes at the right moment to see Mark’s time, finally, rise back up by years, decades, back to what it was before Peevils hurt him. His sigh of relief is so loud it’s almost a sob. Still, he keeps composed as he draws near Mark’s bedside, and as Mark opens his eyes all the way.

“Mark, are you okay?” Amy asks, excited and anxious, “Can you hear me?”

“Ungh,” Mark mutters, blinking slow.

“Give him a minute, he’s been out for a while” says Dr. Iplier, checking the various monitors around Mark for abnormalities. Luckily, there are none. “Actually, do you think you could track down Google? Mark’ll probably be coherent when you get back.”

“I guess,” Amy says, deflating a little, “What about Dark?”

“He’ll figure out Mark’s awake soon enough,” Dr. Iplier says, “His aura can tell that sort of thing.”

Amy nods, and reluctantly heads out to find Googleplier, but not before giving Mark’s hand a squeeze.

She peeks in on Oliver’s room before she leaves the clinic, half-wondering if he, and everyone else, might already be alive again. He clearly isn’t, and Amy figures Mark must have to bring him back with intention. But Oliver has at least stopped flickering, and Amy’s heart feels ever-lighter.

She almost runs to the control room, so filled with excitement and happiness that the smile on her face feels permanent. She finds Google messing with some sort of project. Or, at least, perhaps he was a minute ago, but he’s now staring down at Plus and Chrome, who, like Oliver, have stopped shifting in and out of being. Google looks up at Amy when he sees her come in, sees the look on her face, and understands immediately.

“Mark’s awake,” Amy tells him anyway, breathless.

Amy practically sees the tension roll off his body. She’s leading him at first, but before long his stride overtakes hers, and it’s how Amy knows just how relieved he is.

When she walks back into Mark’s room, she finds Darkiplier already there, standing off in the corner of the room but looking at Mark with a benign sort of intensity. Dr. Iplier, meanwhile, is peering into Mark’s eyes with an ophthalmoscope, with Mark trying not to squint at the bright light.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Iplier asks him, moving from one eye to other.

“Shitty,” Mark answers, voice tired and warped from having gone so long without speaking but happy to be speaking again all the same.

“You look it,” Google says without missing a beat.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mark mutters at him, but there’s no venom in it. As Dr. Iplier pulls the ophthalmoscope away, Mark turns to look at Google. He quickly catches sight of Amy as well, and his eyes soften as he looks at her. “Hey, you,” he says, smiling.

Amy thinks that she could know every word in every language and still not be able to describe how seeing that goofy grin makes her feel.

“‘Hey, you’ yourself,” she says as she approaches his bedside, reaching for his hand. Mark takes it in his and squeezes, and that’s when it really, truly sinks in for Amy that he’s back, that he’s okay, that he’s going to be okay; when she holds his hand and he holds back.

She lets her head drop onto his shoulder, one of the only places on him without a bandage.

“I missed you,” she whispers, voice edged with tears.

“Hey, hey,” Mark murmurs, taking the hand not holding Amy’s and using it to stroke her hair, “It’s okay, I’m okay. I know that whole thing must’ve been scary, but I’m alright now, you don’t have to cry.”

“I know,” Amy answers, voice muffled in Mark’s shoulder, “But I might anyway.”

“And people call me a crybaby,” Mark chuckles, pressing a kiss into her hair.

“I hate to interrupt,” Dark suddenly intrudes, “But now that you’re awake, Mark, I believe there’s something that needs to be done.”

Mark stares at him, not angry, but annoyed in a tired, sympathetic sort of way. He hasn’t forgotten what happened, even after everything. He remembers when Dark tried to stop Peevils in Wilford’s room. He was there when Yandere was killed. He knows better than almost anyone how much Dark fears loss. He finds it hard to muster up anything but sympathy for the being who, until now, has wanted to kill him. Dark turns away from Mark’s stare, cracking his neck to mask how uncomfortable he feels under Mark’s understanding gaze.

“Dark does have a point,” Google admits, “The others aren’t flickering anymore, but they’re still dead.” He looks at Mark. “You have to bring them back.”

Amy lifts her head from Mark’s shoulder, and Mark looks at her as he considers Google’s words. His brow furrows as he thinks.

“How?” he asks. “I’ve never had to bring an ego…back from the dead before.”

“Well,” Dr. Iplier says, “As far as I know, you simply have to _want_ them to come back. All you really need to do is think about it. You’re the one who made them,” Dr. Iplier reminds him, “And they still have the fans, so now that you’re able to want them back they should come back.”

“So, just…think about it?” Mark asks.

“Yep,” Dr. Iplier answers, “I’m a doctor, I know what’s best.”

“I know, Doc,” Mark chuckles. He looks back at Amy again, clearly somewhat nervous.

“You’ve got this, Mark,” she says, smiling softly.

Mark returns it with a gentle grin of his own, and does as Dr. Iplier suggested. He thinks. He thinks about watching Peevils kill them with his own hands, and remembers what she told him.

_Your hand held the gun, and your finger pulled the trigger. It doesn’t matter who held the reins._

But Mark knows that he holds the reins now. And he wants the egos back.

He’s concentrating so hard he doesn’t hear the footsteps, but he does hear Google turn around and Dr. Iplier gasp.

Mark remembers that Oliver had three bullets in his chest the last time he saw him. Now, the android is standing in the doorway to his room, with a look on his face like he knows what it means that he’s alive, smile brighter than Mark has ever seen it.

“Oliver,” Google breathes, eyes so wide they might fall out.

“Hi, Blue,” Oliver says, voice soft.

In the next moment, he’s being crushed in Google’s embrace.

“You’re alive,” he whispers, like his voice might break if he tries to speak any louder, “You’re alright.”

“Yeah,” Oliver murmurs, wrapping his arms around his older brother, “Yeah, I’m alright. It’s okay, Google, I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Google repeats, as if he hardly believes it. “Oliver, I missed you,” he goes on, sounding very close to tears.

“Shush,” Oliver says gently, “Everything’s okay, Google. I mean, if I’m here—” His eyes light up. “Plus and Chrome are okay, too!” He pulls away from the hug, practically bouncing with excitement. “Come on, we gotta go find them!”

“I doubt they’ve gone anywhere, Oliver,” Google replies, but there’s a smile on his face regardless. He casts a single, thankful, backwards glance at Mark as Oliver practically yanks him out of the room.

“It worked,” Mark gasps, still shell-shocked.

“I told you you had it,” Amy says, running a hand through Mark’s already-messy hair.

At that moment, the two of them along with Dr. Iplier hear the distinctive sound of Dark teleporting away. Sure enough, when they look at the corner of the room, he’s gone.

“Rude,” says Mark, without any real anger.

“We can’t really blame him,” Dr. Iplier points out, “No doubt there’s people he wants to check on.”

“What about you?” Amy asks him. She’s been to Ego Inc. enough times to know of one person in particular that Dr. Iplier deeply cares about.

“Oh, well,” Dr. Iplier stammers, “Yes, but, I have to keep an eye on Mark, don’t I?”

“I’ll be the judge of that!” says Mark, “And I say I’ll be fine while you’re gone.”

“Mark, I’m the doctor here—” Dr. Iplier starts.

“Yeah, yeah, you know best,” Mark finishes, “I’m the one who gave you that catchphrase. But I’m not gonna let you miss out on seeing people you care about.” He gives a gentle smile. “Go on, Doc, I’ll be fine.”

“And if anything does happen,” Amy says, “I’ll let you know right away.”

Dr. Iplier sighs thoughtfully, and looks at Mark’s time. It’s perfectly steady, going down second by second as it should, projecting a long life.

“Alright,” Dr. Iplier relents, “I’ll hold you to that, Amy. See you in a bit.” There’s gratefulness in his eyes as he leaves the room, and Amy and Mark give him little waves goodbye.

The two are then left alone.

“How have you been holding up?” Mark asks Amy, “Doc said it’s been three days.”

“About as well as you’d expect,” Amy answers, “Considering your clock was acting really strange, according to Dr. Iplier.”

“Yeah, he told me that before you came in,” Mark says. He shakes his head. “This whole thing is just…so beyond me. I didn’t know half the stuff I know about figments before this happened.” He looks down at himself, as his hands. “Maybe I did know and just didn’t want to think about it. All those figments, all those _people_ , whose lives are basically in my hands.” He shudders, remembering what Peevils made him do. “It’s…a lot.”

“I bet,” Amy murmurs, taking one of Mark’s hands in her own.

“Dr. Iplier said Google and Dark killed Peevils, and that she’s in Dark’s void now,” Mark goes on, “But now what? What if she escapes? She can’t just be killed, she has to be forgotten. How do you make someone forget something?”

“Actually, I had an idea the other day,” Amy says, “That you could pretty much distract the fans by making videos about your egos. Like a whole series; everybody gets a video.”

“Woof,” Mark says, “That’s a lot of videos. But the fans would love it, ‘specially if I drop hints beforehand. They go nuts for that.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Amy says, “Obviously we can’t just tell them to stop making content about Peevils, but we can definitely give them other things to make content about.” Mark grins. “What?” Amy asks, smiling a little.

“My girlfriend’s a genius~,” Mark says, sing-song. Amy laughs, and Mark laughs too, and the two lean forward towards each other, bumping foreheads.

“Hey,” Mark says, “I’ve been wanting to ask…Someone’s been watching Chica, right?”

“Of course,” Amy answers, unable to keep from laughing a little, “Ethan’s taking care of her.”

“Oh,” Mark says, subdued, “So the others know what happened.”

“Yeah,” Amy replies, “Sean and Signe do, too, but we haven’t said anything one way or the other to the fans. We weren’t really sure if, well…” She doesn’t finish. It hurts to think about, even with Mark sitting before her, perfectly alive.

“Hey, hey,” Mark murmurs, kissing Amy’s cheek, “It’s okay now. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” He pauses. “We should probably let the others know.”

“Yeah, we should,” Amy says, but makes no move to grab her phone.

Mark seems to understand, without words being spoken, that Amy wants him to herself for a little while. As Amy scoots closer, tucking her head into his shoulder, Mark decides he’s happy to oblige.

Meanwhile, floor by floor, once-lost figments come together with those they missed.

~~~

Yandereplier wakes up on the floor of the dojo, a little dazed as the heavy hardness of death slowly falls away. He hears someone else sit up a few feet away, and looks over to see Bim. Yandere wonders what he missed as Bim looks around himself before his eyes meet Yandere’s.

“Yan, you’re okay!” He exclaims. He looks down at himself, patting his head, his chest, his arms. “ _I’m_ okay! We’re okay, that means…” His face splits into a smile. “…I did it. I _did_ it. I got Peevils out of Mark, Mark is okay, everyone…” He suddenly stands. “Ollie and Wil and the Jims, they’re all okay, everyone’s okay, I did it, I can’t believe I _did it!_ ” He dashes out of the room, half-laughing, as Yandere looks on.

Yandere grabs his katana from off the floor beside him (there’s a small burst of anger in his chest as he remembers why it’s there) and sheathes it, thinking to himself. No doubt Bim has gone to see all the people he’s been missing, and Yandere thinks he should, too. Relief breaks in his chest as it sinks in that he’s alive, that Wilford and Chrome must also be alive.

Surely Dark is alive by now, as well.

Yandere’s surprised by the stew of conflicting feelings that thought brings up. Happiness and relief, sure, but also anxiety, making something bittersweet. Yandere remembers the sound of Dark crying out just before Yandere died, but he also remembers the things Peevils said to him.

 _He doesn’t keep you around because he_ cares _,_ _he keeps you around because you’re_ useful.

 _You know what he said? “He’s_ convenient _, that’s all.”_

_He already knows how you feel about him, so if he cares about you, then why hasn’t he said anything?_

Yandere isn’t sure how much of her words he can trust, but then again, she did have a point. Dark is _Dark_ , after all; he’s cruel and sadistic, powerful and power-hungry, those traits are what drew Yandere to him in the first place. Would Dark really string Yandere along for his own benefit? Is every pleasant moment between them contrived? Is there truly no hope for Yandere’s love to be returned?

He's terrified to realize that he doesn’t know.

It’s not as if he’d never thought about those things before, either. Yandere’s always had a nagging voice in the back of his head, one to tell him that he will never be good enough for Dark, that Dark, in turn, is too good for someone like Yandere. It flares up to remind Yandere that it could all be a farce, that it probably is one, because why would Dark ever love him? What would someone so powerful and self-assured ever need Yandere for? Aside from helping out with boring chores. Which Yandere does, and is happy to do; at least when these thoughts aren’t circulating in his mind.

For god’s sake, Yandere should be _happy_ right now, he should be overjoyed. He’s alive, Wilford is alive, Chrome is alive, everything Peevils did has been undone, everything is back to normal again, everything is okay. He knows all that, and yet that nagging voice in his mind, joined now with Peevils’s, is keeping his head out of the clouds.

But it’s as if the universe can hear his thoughts, for in the next moment there’s the sound of moving air and the dojo gets colder. Yandere jumps up and find Dark standing not six feet away from him, with a look on his face that even Yandere, for all the expressions he’s seen on Dark, cannot decipher. He swallows his earlier doubts as he smiles at Dark.

“Yami-san, it’s good to see you again~!” he exclaims, and it’s true; for all his worried thoughts it’s a relief to see Dark in front of him.

Yandere’s heart almost stops when Dark _smiles_. It’s but the slightest curve in his lips, the tiniest lift in the corner of his mouth, but it’s a smile all the same.

“You as well, Yandere,” Dark says, with a softness in his voice that Yandere hardly ever hears from him.

If Dark were only smiling or only speaking kindly, Yandere would be able to handle it. But both at once is, in his opinion, downright unfair.

“Ah, um, _arigatou_ ,” Yandere stammers, flustered. His hand instinctively rises to his face to try and hide his blush. Not that it helps; Dark has already noticed, if the low chuckle that comes out of his throat is any indication. The sound only makes Yandere blush harder. He thinks his face must be as red as his hair by now.

_Embarrassing. He has you wrapped around his finger and he knows it. What makes you think he could ever actually want you?_

Ah, there it is. That skeptical voice in his head, spurred on by Peevils’s words. Apparently Dark’s appearance isn’t enough to push it away. At the very least, it forces Yandere to compose himself, allowing him to steady his expression and take his hand away from his face as the blush there dies down. Dark seems to notice the sudden change, but when he speaks, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Are you alright, then?” he instead asks, “Death is always…unpleasant, after all.”

“Oh, I’m fine!” Yandere says, heart fluttering at Dark’s concern, “I’ve died before, it’s not that bad.”

(It was different this time. This time was almost permanent. The thought that Yandere might’ve stopped existing at any moment was horrifying, and it pervaded every second of those three days he was dead. But how could he possibly bother Dark with that?)

“Mm,” Dark says, accepting Yandere’s answer. He pauses, figuring out what he wants to say next. “I’m…sorry I wasn’t fast enough before.” He looks away. “Myself and the others could have stopped Peevils from killing you had I gotten us here sooner.”

“Yami-san…” Yandere murmurs. His heart hammers ever harder. “I—I’m fine now, it doesn’t matter.”

Dark sighs, but he’s smiling again as he looks back at Yandere.

“You’re so forgiving,” he says, “No matter what I do or don’t do, you’re always so forgiving.”

Yandere is too surprised by the compliment to even thank Dark as his cheeks turn red again.

“You’re very clever, too,” Dark continues, stepping forward towards Yandere, “You’ve managed to make me fond of you through sheer persistence.” He stops walking when he’s right in front of Yandere. The smile drops from Dark’s expression as he goes on. “I’m sorry it took you almost dying completely for me to realize it.”

“Yami-san?” Yandere whispers, barely audible. Dark can’t be saying what Yandere thinks he’s saying, can he?

Dark lifts his hand and gently takes Yandere’s chin, and Yandere’s breath hitches. He stares up at Dark with wide eyes and strawberry cheeks. Dark’s gaze is cool as ever, but there’s something kind there just below the surface, just behind his eyes. They stay like that for a moment, and Yandere, lovestruck as he is, feels those nagging thoughts begin to return. But they don’t get far.

Dark lifts Yandere’s chin, his other arms curls around Yandere’s waist, and he kisses him, impossibly soft and gentle.

Just like that, every doubt Yandere’s ever had melts away, along with almost everything else. For a long moment he can’t even think at all, too stunned to even close his eyes. When he can think, he thinks he’s going to pass out, or explode, or die on the spot. Possibly all three, in that order.

But he’s not frozen for long as love warms him up from the inside out. His eyes drift closed, he wraps his arms around Dark, and he presses himself up against him as he kisses back, fierce and longing. Dark’s hand moves from Yandere’s chin, brushing across his cheek to the back of his head, tangling fingers through his hair. Dark kisses him harder, tongue hungrily slipping inside Yandere’s mouth. Yandere matches his intensity, his own tongue moving against Dark’s as he brings his hands to Dark’s face, feeling his stubble beneath his fingers. Dark sighs, and Yandere moans, and Yandere feels more complete and whole than he had when he first found Ego Inc and realized it was where he belonged. Neither of them notice cherry blossom petals start to fall through the air around them, gently floating in from nowhere.

Dark pulls away first, if only to let Yandere breathe, but the two hold onto each other still, panting. Yandere has a dusting of pink across his cheeks, stars in his eyes, and flower petals floating around him, and Dark doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful.

“Yami-san,” Yandere gasps, unable to say anything else. He’s too lovestruck to be embarrassed about the way his hands remain on Dark’s cheeks or the sound he made earlier when Dark deepened the kiss. Dark doesn’t seem to be embarrassed either, if the warmth in his eyes and the loose smile on his lips are anything to go by.

“You don’t…” Dark begins, again carefully choosing words, “…you don’t have to use that honorific for me anymore if you don’t want to.”

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a very big deal; at least, it shouldn’t be. Dark probably doesn’t know how significant honorifics are in Japanese, he probably doesn’t know how much a person trusts someone else when they decide they don’t want an honorific anymore. Even if he does know, it probably doesn’t matter; honorifics aren’t quite the same in English, it’d make more sense for Dark not to want an honorific on his name.

And yet, despite all that, this is the moment that Yandere’s brain decides to get emotional. Tears come on too fast for him to stop, and he takes his hands away from Dark’s face to scrub at his eyes.

“I’m not upset,” he says quickly, even as emotion warps his voice. But it’s true. Yandere isn’t upset; he’s the happiest he’s ever been.

Dark huffs, a small noise that wants to be a chuckle but isn’t quite there, as he gently takes Yandere’s wrists and pulls his hands away from his face.

“I know,” he murmurs, but hugs Yandere anyway, one hand anchoring him close and the other stroking his hair, trying to soothe.

Yandere hugs back, burying his face in Dark’s shoulder, sniffling.

“I’m really happy,” Yandere says, voice wet.

“I know,” Dark repeats, a smile in his voice, “There’s a lot to be happy about right now, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” Yandere sniffles. “Hey, speaking of that,” he says as a thought occurs to him, “What happened to Peevils anyway? Bim was here, he said something about getting her out of Mark…”

“That he did,” Dark replies, pulling away a little to look at Yandere as he speaks to him. “Google killed her after that, and I’m going to be keeping her in my void until she fades.”

“That’s where she is?” Yandere asks. His tears stop as his eyes flash. “Can you take me to her so I can kill her?”

“No,” Dark answers immediately, “Besides, she hasn’t woken up from Google killing her yet.”

“After she wakes up then?” Yandere persists, “Please?”

“No,” Dark repeats.

“But Yami, I _really_ want to kill her.” He tilts his head, and the strange glint in his eyes reveals itself as bloodlust, but his voice stays as high-pitched and innocent as ever. “I want to tear her into pieces for everything she did. Doesn’t she deserve it, Yami?” Yandere’s lips spread into a wide grin. “I just want to make her suffer.”

Perhaps, Dark concedes, he was wrong before. _This_ is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“…Maybe,” he relents, “But not until she’s weaker, so you’ll need to be patient.”

Yandere’s crazed expression drops immediately to be replaced with a pout.

“ _Baka,_ ” Yandere mutters, light and teasing.

Well, this isn’t the most beautiful thing Dark’s ever seen, but it’s definitely the cutest.

“Will you be less mad at me,” Dark says, “If I took you with me to Wilford’s studio? I was planning to go there after this, and I’m sure you want to see Wilford, too.”

“ _Hai!_ ” Yandere answers, face lighting up in a happy grin. “I’m not actually mad at you,” he adds.

“Yandere,” Dark says, smiling in return, “I know.”

Yandere blushes for what feels like the hundredth time, but his smile remains as Dark teleports them out of the dojo.

~~~

The Jims wake up beside each other on the floor of their closet, and for a long moment they’re too astonished to do anything but stare at each other, each amazed to see bright, living eyes staring back.

Then the dam bursts, and they practically fling themselves into each other’s arms, sobbing with joy.

“God, Jim, y-you’re alive, you’re alive,” gasps Weather Jim, clinging to News Jim’s shirt like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.

“ _You’re_ alive,” News Jims whispers shakily, one hand threading through Weather Jim’s hair and the other cupping the back of his neck, drawing him as close as possible, “Jim, I-I kept trying to m-make you feel better before but I, God, I w-was so scared, I thought—”

“I thought, t-too,” Weather Jim sniffles, not wanting News Jim to have to say it and himself not wanting to hear it, “And I knew y-you were scared, who wouldn’t be? But we’re alive.” He pulls away to look at News Jim, offering a wide smile even with tears still streaming down his cheeks. “We’re alive, h-holy _fuck_ , we’re alive.”

News Jim almost laughs, but he kisses Weather Jim instead, hands moving to his cheeks the way they did the last time he kissed him, when they both thought it would be _the_ last time. The kiss is short, though, as they’re each too out of breath from crying, and even after they break apart they go back to sobbing into each other’s shirts.

It’s News Jim who hears running footsteps come into their room, and looks up in time to see Bim rush in. Their eyes meet, and Bim practically melts with relief.

“You guys are okay,” he breathes, before running to them and wrapping an arm around each of them.

Weather Jim notices him now, too, and he and News Jim are quick to reach out and pull Bim into their hug. The three stay like that for several minutes, squeezing each other tight and crying into each other’s shoulders, relishing how warm and alive each of them are, rejoicing in their own existence. Eventually, the tears peter off, and Weather Jim is the first to speak.

“What even happened, anyway?” he asks, “How are we alive?”

“I got Peevils out of Mark with my powers,” Bim answers, and even after having cried so much he manages to puff up with pride. “And Mark must’ve brought us all back.”

“Wait, “us”?” News Jim asks, pulling away from the group hug enough to stare at Bim in shock. “You mean Peevils killed you, too?”

“Yeah,” Bim admits, “I…honestly wasn’t sure I’d gotten Mark out, to be honest. She must have gotten me at the last second before my powers pushed her out; otherwise, well…” He shakes his head. “Whatever. We’re okay. We’re all okay. That’s what matters.”

There’s a pause.

“Hey, this’d make a hell of a story, huh, Jim?” asks Weather Jim, laughing a little.

“Heh, yeah, I guess so,” News Jim replies, unable to help his grin, “I bet Wilford’ll be interviewing everyone in the building before too long.”

“Oh, geez, Wil!” Bim cries, jumping to his feet, “Peevils got him, too, I gotta go see him!”

“We’ll come with you,” both Jims accidentally say at the same time as they stand up. They immediately turn to give each other a confused look.

“That keeps happening,” Weather Jim says, and Bim snorts.

Now that he has company, Bim doesn’t feel the need to run like before, and instead walks alongside the Jims as they leave their room, traveling down the hall and to the stairs towards the third floor, happy to listen to their chatter, happy to get to hear it again.

~~~

When Plus wakes up, he only has a second and a half to remember what happened to him before he hears Chrome gasp from a few feet away. He turns to look at him and sees Chrome’s eyes shining; not with the bright red glow they get when he’s angry, but with tears about to be shed. It occurs to him that it’s been ages since the last time he saw Chrome cry.

“Chrome, it’s alright,” Plus murmurs, moving over to him. He knows Chrome isn’t always one for hugs, so he settles for reassuringly grabbing his shoulder.

Chrome nods, lips pressed together like he doesn’t trust himself enough to speak without sobbing. He leans forward and lets his head drop onto Plus’s shoulder, and Plus takes that as permission to wrap his arm around Chrome in a loose hug. He can feel him trembling ever so slightly.

“It’s alright,” he repeats, voice soft, “I’m here, don’t cry.”

“I’m not gonna cry,” Chrome mutters, shaky and quiet yet managing a touch of annoyance.

It’s then that they hear familiar voices coming from outside the control room.

“Ed, you’re okay!”

“Sure I am, ain’t no one can take down ol’ Ed Edgar Adoptallot _that_ easy!”

“Yes, they can, and Peevils almost _did_ , because you’re a colossal idiot.”

“Hey, I was only tryin’ to help!”

Google and Ed start bickering as Oliver walks into the control room, shaking his head but with a grin on his lips. His eyes light up at the sight of Plus and Chrome.

“Guys!” he cries, running to them. Plus and Chrome stand to meet him, accepting Oliver’s hug with open arms. “I’m so glad you’re both okay,” he murmurs into his brothers’ shoulders.

“Yeah,” Plus responds, hugging Oliver tight, “We’re okay.”

“We’re all okay,” Chrome adds, sounding as if he’s speaking to himself more than to Oliver.

That’s when Google comes in after parting with Ed, and he doesn’t expect to be so surprised by the sight of Plus and Chrome, but he’s blindsided by the fact that they’re both alive, and he can see from here that Plus’s wrist isn’t damaged anymore, and Oliver’s there, too, all three of his baby brothers who he missed so much are back like nothing ever went wrong, like Peevils never killed them, like there were never any bullet holes in their skin, like Google never failed to protect them, they’re alive and whole and _right there_ —

Before Google knows it, he’s crossed the room and has his arms around all three of his brothers, holding them close to him. Plus and Chrome are each a little surprised, but Oliver already seems to understand. Regardless, they each hug Google back, forming a tight circle of tangled arms and gentle hands.

“I missed all of you,” Google murmurs, “I missed all of you so much. The odds were so high that I’d never see any of you again.”

“Aw, Google,” Oliver whispers, using his spot at the center of the group hug to squeeze Google tight, “We’re here now, it’s okay.”

“Whatever _fucking bullshit_ Peevils planned—” Chrome almost growls, “—didn’t work, we’re fine.”

“The statistics of the past don’t matter,” Plus says, “You’re seeing us all now, aren’t you?”

The three younger androids continue to murmur to Google, who closes his eyes and focuses on the sounds of his brothers’ voices, the feel of their t-shirts and the mechanical warmth of their skin, and before long tears start to leak out from his closed eyes. The others notice immediately.

“Google, you’re crying!” Plus gasps, and Google almost laughs.

“Astute observation,” he quips, though his voice is wavering and quiet.

“You’ve literally never cried, ever,” Chrome puts in, “Maybe you’re malfunctioning.”

“He is _not_ malfunctioning!” Oliver yells, “He’s just happy, that’s all.”

“It _is_ highly out of character for Google to cry, though,” Plus muses.

Oliver, Plus, and Chrome devolve into bickering as Google lets out a breathy, watery chuckle, holding the three of them ever tighter.

~~~

Once Dark teleports himself and Yandere into Wilford’s studio, Yandere darts ahead to look for Wilford. Dark doesn’t begrudge him that, though, knowing full well how close the two of them are. He looks around more calmly, finding that Wilford isn’t where he died. It doesn’t take long for him and Yandere to hear him and locate him in his bedroom, lamenting at the black burn mark on the ceiling and bits of shrapnel around the room that used to be his bazooka.

“I can’t believe this, I barely even got to _use_ that thing,” he gripes to himself.

Dark rolls his eyes from the doorway, and Yandere dashes forward.

“Wil!” he cries, gearing up for the biggest tackle-hug he’s ever given.

Wilford turns just in time to catch an armful of clingy, crying Yandere, and laughs as he holds him, momentum swinging them both around.

“Come on now, kiddo,” Wilford chides playfully, “You know no one can get the jump on old Wilford Warfstache!”

“Peevils did,” Dark points out, “You’re lucky you aren’t still dead.”

“Oh, don’t get all sentimental on me now, Darky,” Wilford says sarcastically. He looks down at Yandere, still holding onto Wilford tight and sobbing into his shoulder. “That goes for you too, Yandy,” he says more gently.

“You w-were almost gone f-forever,” Yandere whimpers, “I’m so happy y-you’re okay, onii-san.”

“You and me both,” Wilford admits, squeezing Yandere tight, “But I’m still here, aren’t I? There’s no need to cry.”

Yandere nods but sniffles, so Wilford holds him for a few moments longer, letting the younger ego calm down. Dark remains standing in the doorway, and it’s for this reason that when Yandere finally stops crying and whispers something in Wilford’s ear, Dark can’t hear it. But he can guess as much what it is when Wilford turns his gaze to him, eyes surprised and brow furrowed.

“ _Really,_ ” Wilford says, pulling away from Yandere and approaching Dark.

“Onii-saaaaaaan,” Yandere whines, already knowing where this is going.

“Otoutooooooo,” Wilford replies with a slight grin, perfectly mimicking Yandere’s tone.

Yandere pouts put doesn’t say anything more as Wilford comes to a stop before Dark, barely inches away from him. Dark resists the equal urges to lean back or roll his eyes at the oddly serious face Wilford is making.

“So,” Wilford starts, “You and Yandere, huh?”

“Yes,” Dark says, “What of it?”

Yandere’s cheeks start to turn red.

“Well, Dark,” Wilford begins, “We’ve been friends a long time, you and I, and I’d say I know you quite well.”

“And?” Dark questions.

“It is for that reason precisely,” Wilford answers, “That I don’t trust you with Yan one bit.”

Dark’s lip curls in a sneer, and Yandere groans in embarrassment, covering his red face with is hands.

“Are you serious, Wilford?” Dark asks.

“Never been more serious in my life!” Wilford insists, “Now, don’t get me wrong, Dark: I like you, we’re friends, we’ve always been friends and I wouldn’t change it for anything.” A knife poofs into his hand. “But if you aren’t good to Yandy, I won’t hesitate to give you a tickle with this bad boy here.” He waggles the knife. “You get it?”

“…I get it,” Dark says through gritted teeth.

“You’re so _embarrassing_ , onii-san,” Yandere mutters from behind his hands.

“Hey, I’m just making sure Darky, you know,” Wilford makes a vague gesture, “Understands what’s happening here.”

“Wilford,” Dark growls, losing patience, “This is completely unnecessary. I do _not_ have any ill intentions in getting into a relationship with Yandere.”

Yandere peeks out from between his fingers at that, a happy gleam in his eyes.

“Pinky promise?” Wilford asks, holding up his pinky finger.

Dark almost sighs. This is foolish.

“Pinky promise,” he mutters anyway, locking his own pinky finger with Wilford’s for a moment. Wilford nods, seemingly satisfied.

“Alright then,” he says, “I’ll hold you to it, Darky.”

“I’m sure,” Dark replies, glad to be done with the conversation.

There’s a pause as Wilford sighs, no doubt thinking about his cause of death, and what might’ve come after.

“How bad did it get?” he asks.

“By the end of it,” Dark answers, “There were only a few of us left.”

Wilford curses. Yandere, no longer blushing, steps closer to Wilford, like he hopes his presence alone can comfort him.

“Sheesh,” Wilford mutters, “What ended up happening?”

“Bim pulled Peevils out of Mark,” Dark explains, “Google killed her, and I put her in my void.”

“Bim helped save the day, huh?” Wilford asks, expression lighting up immediately, “That kid’s got more in him than I thought.”

Dark is about to ask if Wilford even listened to the rest of his explanation when he hears the sound of a door opening, following by running footsteps. He, Wilford, and Yandere turn to see Bim, there as if he knew he’d been mentioned, with the Jims trailing behind.

“Wil!” Bim shouts, running forward and hugging Wilford, tears already back in his eyes.

“Hey, Trimmer,” Wilford says, hugging back, “What’s this I hear about you getting Peevils out of Mark?”

“Heh, yeah,” Bim replies, pride in his voice, “I used my powers to pull her out.” He winces. “She did still kill me, though.”

“You better believe I’m interviewing you about this later,” Wilford laughs, letting Bim go, “That story’s too good to pass up!” Bim laughs, too.

“Sounds great!” he says, grinning wide.

The Jims continue to hang back, too intimidated by both Dark and Yandere to approach Wilford, and they settle for standing beside each other and smiling at Bim and Wilford’ happiness, smiling at the fact that they’re both alive.

“You know,” Wilford says to Bim, “You ought to let Oliver know about your little act of heroism.” He winks. “I bet it’d impress him.”

“Wil,” Bim mutters quietly, embarrassed, but smiling at the thought of Oliver.

“I mean it!” Wilford insists, “If that doesn’t get his attention, nothing will.” He grabs Bim’s shoulders and turns him around, clapping him on the back to move him forward. “Now go out there and make it happen!”

“Geez, Wil,” Bim says, half-laughing at the absurdity, “If it means so much to you, sure.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder at Wilford. “I’m really glad you’re okay, you know. I put together what happened after I knocked, and I—”

“Oh, pish-posh,” Wilford says, but his smile is softer, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Bim answers, giving his own smile, “Yeah.”

He waves goodbye as he leaves the studio with the Jims in tow.

“Ever the wingman today, aren’t you, Wilford?” Dark muses when Bim and the Jims are out of sight.

“What can I say?” Wilford replies with a grin, “Wilford knows what’s best.”

“Wil,” Yandere puts in, “Stop stealing Ishi-san’s catchphrase! You already have your own.”

“Eh, that’s a minor detail,” Wilford says, waving off the comment. He pauses. “Speaking of me knowing what’s best, don’t you have a Google to check on, too?”

“ _Hai,_ that’s right,” Yandere says, thinking. He gets caught up in the moment easily on normal days, and in a strange situation like the one he’s in now, he’s practically dependent on others to change the subject for him. “Are you both coming with me?” he asks Wilford and Dark.

“Go on ahead,” Dark tells him, “We’ll catch up.”

Even Wilford notices how different Dark’s voice sounds as he speaks to Yandere. Yandere, for his part, turns the slightest bit pink and gives a tiny wave, too smiley and flustered for a proper goodbye. He practically skips away, and Dark has to suppress a chuckle.

There’s a pause that Wilford breaks.

“I meant what I said about Yan before,” he says.

“I know,” Dark replies, “So did I.”

“How’d that happen so suddenly, anyway?” Wilford asks, “After all this time? Here I was thinking you weren’t even capable of love.”

“As long as we’re being _honest,_ ” Dark growls, “Watching someone die in front of you rather puts your feelings into perspective.”

There’s another pause as Wilford mulls Dark’s words over, clearly not having expected such a response. Dark supposes, though, that he can’t really blame Wilford. It’s been too long, Wilford’s too far gone to remember the pieces that make up Dark. Dark can forget too, sometimes, when things are peaceful. When things are peaceful, he can feel like his own being, and not like a horrendous amalgamation of two withered souls and a hungry spirit trapped under a crackling human shell. But since Peevils began her reign of terror the dissonant voices within him had gotten ever louder, and reached their loudest when Peevils killed Yandere. Dark knows that it’s reasonable for Wilford to assume Dark can’t love, though, considering he doesn’t remember those voices so well anymore, he’s forgotten that the two people whose fragments remain in Dark loved so fiercely it got them both in trouble, even if in different ways. Dark hadn’t even wanted to admit he could love until now, perhaps due to those fragments, along with the entity that sucked up any good they once had.

But Dark isn’t so stubborn that he won’t take a second chance, even if there’s an opportunity for it to blow up in his face.

Even if the monster under his shell is still hungry for souls.

“This happened because I…have gotten complacent,” Dark sighs, “We all have.” He pauses. “I’ll be holding a meeting soon. We need to make sure nothing like this can happen again.”

“Hey, Dark,” Wilford says, putting a hand on Dark’s shoulder, “What happened was bad, but it’s over with.” He grins. “Why not enjoy that for a bit?”

And that’s why Dark needs Wilford around; for all the headaches and problems he causes there’s no glass half-full better to match Dark’s glass half-empty. No one better to remind Dark to let the past be, live in the present, and embrace the future, even with all its uncertainty. No one better to remind Dark that sometimes, just sometimes, it’s okay to let go and be happy.

“I suppose,” Dark answers Wilford, the sigh in his voice failing to hide his smile.

~~~

Across the hall, the Googles finally emerge from the control room to find Bim and the Jims coming to meet them. Oliver’s face lights up to see Bim, and even Google can’t help but smile. It’s a relief to see him again, a relief that Bim gets to see his sacrifice through.

“It’s so good to see you guys again!” Bim says as he approaches. The Jims nod their agreement.

“You, too!” Oliver exclaims, arms already out for a hug.

There’s no hesitation when Bim and Oliver embrace; they both remember too well the last time they saw each other, they both remember too clearly the tears and the motor oil, and it grounds them both to be so close. Meanwhile, the Jims go to Plus, their second-favorite Google after Oliver, and Google himself watches, no longer crying but with circuits alight with happiness.

Mere moments later, a yelp and a thud snap everyone’s gazes to where Chrome stands. Or rather, stood, as Yandere’s tackle-hug has gracelessly sent them both sprawling, leaving Yandere clutching onto a surprised and grumpy Chrome.

“Get off me!” Chrome yells, “You trying to get me killed again??”

“I missed you, Aka-kun,” Yandere sniffles, overcome to be seeing his friend alive again.

Chrome sighs at that and sits up, curling one arm around Yandere. The hold is awkward and a little too loose as Chrome is poor at giving comfort, but it’s enough for Yandere, who continues hugging Chrome tight, whimpering into his shoulder.

“Hey, quit crying,” Chrome mutters without any real harshness, “I’m fine.”

The others smile or chuckle before looking back to each other, letting Chrome and Yandere have their own moment.

“Gosh, it’s…” Bim says, speaking to Oliver, “It’s really just so good to see you again, Ollie.”

“Yeah,” Oliver replies, “I’m glad to be okay, and I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

“Well, actually,” Bim starts, but stops at the shocked look on Oliver’s face.

“You mean she got you, too??” Oliver asks, eyebrows drawing down in concern.

“Yeah, but!” Bim says quickly, already puffing up with pride, “I helped defeat her! I got her out of Mark.” He deflates somewhat. “I don’t know what happened after that, though.”

“I killed her,” Google puts in. Oliver looks over his shoulder at him as he continues. “She’s in Dark’s void now, still dead, most likely.”

“Woah,” Oliver and Bim say at the same time. They both laugh at that, and Google almost rolls his eyes but manages to hold back.

“That could not have happened without Bim, though,” Google admits, looking right at him, “Thank you.”

As proud as Bim is of what he’s done, he still finds himself flustered at Google’s compliment.

“Oh, geez, I mean…” he stammers, and Oliver lets out a soft giggle. Bim can feel his cheeks starting to heat up, but he can’t help it; Oliver’s laughter is his favorite sound in the world.

“That’s incredible, Bim,” Oliver says, eyes shining with awe and joy, “I have to thank you, too.” He shyly ducks his head. “It’s because of you that we’re all still here.”

“Google’s the one who killed Peevils, Oliver,” butts in Chrome, who is no longer on the floor but standing next to Google, Yandere on his other side.

“Judging from Google’s explanation of events,” says Plus, “Bim’s actions were significant, but they were not the only actions that got us where we are now.”

“Whatever,” Oliver says, rolling his eyes. Bim can tell he’s not really annoyed, though, especially since he’s back to smiling in the next moment. And Bim so loves Oliver’s smile. “Still, thank you for everything,” Oliver continues, “You’re at least part of the reason we’re okay.”

“I’m, um, glad it all worked out,” Bim replies, still very much flustered. Ordinarily he’d be able to hide it, but after all the excitement he’s been through lately he finds doing so impossible. He’s flustered, and just plain _happy_ , seeing Oliver in front of him, completely alive and okay, smiling and laughing, sweet and cute and perfect as ever—

Suddenly, Bim is kissing him, and Oliver is too astonished to react before Bim pulls away just as quickly.

“Oh shit, I wasn’t, I didn’t,” Bim stammers helplessly. Why the hell did he _do_ that? He can’t just _kiss_ someone like that, especially not _now_ , especially not _Oliver_. The other egos around them are just as shocked at Bim as he is. Chrome and Plus, however, quickly become angry; eyes beginning to blaze red and green and feet advancing a step forward. They only make it a step, though, before Google holds out his arms across each of their chests, preventing them from continuing on. Google remembers the conversation he had with Bim a few days ago, after all, and he wants to see what Oliver does before he makes any judgements.

For a long moment, Oliver still doesn’t react. It’s as if his internal systems are buffering, scrambling just as hard as Bim to figure out what just happened and why. Bim, meanwhile, is sure he’s just ruined everything.

“God, I’m sorry,” he rambles, unable to look Oliver in the eyes any longer, “That was, I just, I shouldn’t have—”

He’s cut off when Oliver kisses him, arms reaching out and hugging him close.

Bim hadn’t thought that Oliver’s amazing hugs could get any tighter or warmer, but he’s proven wrong the moment he’s in Oliver’s embrace. His heart swells, and he almost laughs, but he holds it in, kissing Oliver back instead, wrapping his own arms around him. Oliver feels something similar, a deep warmth in his core, and he realizes just how much he _wants_ this, that maybe he’s wanted this all along. The kiss between the pair deepens, fingers tangle in hair or grasp at shirts, and the two practically forget where they are.

“For fuck’s sake,” Chrome mutters, “Can’t they get a room?”

“But isn’t it sweet, Aka-kun?” asks Yandere, ever the romantic, looking happily at Bim and Oliver.

“It’s…something,” says Plus, not quite as perturbed as Chrome but rather close to it.

“You owe me five dollars,” Weather Jim says to News Jim with a cheeky grin.

“I was so sure Oliver would make the first move,” News Jim says, shaking his head, “Either way, though, I’m glad one of us was proven right within this century.”

Google doesn’t say anything at all. He’s not enthused to watch the make-out happening in front of him, but he’s happy for Oliver, so he can put aside his revulsion for a moment. Or two. Or three. Or many.

Alright, this is getting ridiculous.

When Oliver and Bim finally break apart, their lips are red and their eyes are bright.

“Oh, wow,” Bim gasps.

“Yeah,” Oliver replies, giggling breathlessly. “Does, um,” he continues, nervously scratching the back of his head, “Does this mean we’re…together?”

“If you want it to, yeah,” Bim answers, smiling and still hopelessly lovestruck.

“Then, I guess…” Oliver says, gently smiling in return, “…I guess we’re a thing, then.”

Bim thinks he might explode, but Oliver hugs him again, and his arms feel like the only thing keeping Bim in one piece. Bim hugs back, letting his head rest on Oliver’s shoulder, relishing in their closeness. Meanwhile, the others look on with expressions ranging from secondhand joy to borderline disgust. Plus and Chrome look at each other, and then look right at Bim with perfectly blank expressions, glowing eyes, and a slight tilt of their heads. The message is clear: _If you break our brother’s heart, we’ll make you regret it._

Bim’s happy mood falters somewhat, until Google notices his brothers’ threatening gazes and elbows them both in the ribs. Again, the message is clear: _Chill out, Bim is harmless, let Oliver have this_.

Plus and Chrome grumble incomprehensibly, but make no protest as Yandere and the Jims hold back giggles. Google looks at Bim, then, with a strange, almost expectant expression on his face. Another soundless statement: _I’m trusting you to be good to him. Prove me right._

Bim nods, smile back on his face, and hugs Oliver tighter.

~~~

The first thing Silver Shepherd notices when he wakes up is that his mask is over his face. It takes him a moment to remember why that’s something worth observing.

He tries to put what happened out of his mind as he gets up, surveying the area around him. Tries to forget what Peevils showed him as he takes in what remains of the elevator and brushes dust off his cape. But it’s always hardest to forget the things one makes oneself forget, so Silver doesn’t forget. Even as he climbs the stairs to leave the basement, he doesn’t forget.

Surely, there’s no need for a hero right now, anyway. Silver knows that if he’s alive, then everyone else Peevils killed must be, too. He wonders for a moment how bad it got. He wonders what he might’ve stopped had he been able to defeat Peevils. He only wonders for a moment, though, brushing the thoughts away like rubble off his suit.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Silver decides he might as well make his way back to his floor, see if Ed or King or around. At the very least, checking on them might make himself feel a little better. Obviously he can’t use the elevator, so he takes the stairs up to the next floor. He remembers that Peevils lives there, too, or is it “lived,” now? He isn’t sure. He realizes he doesn’t have a clue where she is. He knows she must have been stopped by someone, but what if she’s still on the loose? Ordinarily a thought like that would make him jump into action, send him scouring the building until he can find and root out the evil. But right now, after everything, he can’t muster up the energy.

Silver isn’t prepared for what he sees when he reaches the second floor. Granted, he wasn’t sure _what_ he was going to see, but it certainly wasn’t the bodies of several dead, rotting squirrels. It certainly wasn’t Ed, standing some feet apart from them, looking more serious and solemn than Silver has ever seen him. It certainly wasn’t King kneeling on the ground, sobbing, hands hovering over the tiny bodies like he wants to scoop them up and cradle them but can’t bring himself to. Silver doesn’t blame him for not being able to touch them; he feels sick just looking at the poor things, he can’t imagine touching them. There’s other squirrels around, living ones, rubbing against King and trying to comfort him, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Silver knows how much King loves his subjects and how much it tears him up when they die, whether it’s from old age or disease or predators.

It seems Silver wasn’t the only person who’s lost something important.

Ed notices Silver standing there first. He opens his mouth and closes it again, clearly unsure of what to say. Silver wonders if the way he feels is showing on his face, through his mask. Maybe it is. Ed, on the other hand, is stoic, much different from his normal loud and boisterous self. He’s never been good at managing serious situations. Neither has King, come to think of it. Between the three of them, Silver realizes, he’s always been the best at that. Maybe the look Ed is giving him is reflective of that; it’s hard to tell with his sunglasses. Maybe his expression is expectance. Maybe he expects Silver to do something about this, to help King in some way, but Silver’s never felt less sure of himself than he does now.

Well, Silver can handle a bad situation. He can give comfort. It’s not all that heroic, but it’s something.

He approaches King and kneels down next to him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Oh, hi, Silver,” King answers, wiping away tears, “D-didn’t see you get here.”

“I’ve only been here for a minute,” Silver reassures him. He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

King almost laughs, but the sound is more like a sob than anything else.

“Ah, yeah,” he manages, “This is…this is really bad.” He shakes his head. “I f-feel like I should be happier, you know? I mean, Peevils _killed_ me, using Mark! I could’ve been g-gone forever! But I’m not. B-but they…” He looks down at the dead squirrels. “Fuck, I only l-let her kill me to protect them, she s-said she wouldn’t hurt them!!”

He covers his face with his hands and bawls ever harder, and Silver can’t help but feel like he made it worse. He curls an arm around King’s shoulders, loose enough to push away from but tight enough to be grounding. King leans into the hold even as he cries, and Silver takes it as permission to make his hold tighter.

“It’s okay that you’re sad,” Silver says softly, “You love your subjects; it’d be weird if you weren’t.” He squeezes King’s shoulders. “Yeah, you’re alive, and maybe knowing that can help you feel better, but something bad still happened, so it’s not bad that you’re upset.” He offers a gentle smile. “Happiness will come eventually, there’s no need to force it.”

“Geez, how’d you get so smart?” King sniffles, but he’s smiling now, too. “It just…it’s so strange. This whole thing with Peevils.”

“No kidding,” Silver adds.

“But, I mean, it _is_ good that we’re okay,” King admits, “It’s way better than good, actually. But it’s just…easier to be sad, I guess.”

No kidding, Silver thinks.

“That’s okay, you at least have perspective,” Silver says, “You can be sad for a while, and after some time has passed, you can think about the good things and help yourself feel better.”

“Yeah,” King whispers, “Yeah.” He looks at Silver with perfect sincerity. “Thank you, Silver.”

“Of course,” Silver answers with a big grin, “It’s…it’s what I do.”

They stay like that for a while, quiet and next to each other, as King lets himself feel without remorse. But the talked seemed to help; he’s much calmer now, isn’t crying so hard. It had been hard for Silver to get his last words to King out, but he supposes they’re true. He’d always thought that being a hero meant besting an adversary, but that wasn’t always true, was it? Sometimes the villain is a tree that a cat gets stuck in, a housefire sprung up from a faulty plug, or something else that can’t be fought. Death can’t be fought. Sadness can’t be fought. The loss of one’s identity can’t be fought. But it can be endured, and it can be helped along. It can be felt, and it can pass. And maybe people need help to be able to feel those things.

Maybe there’s a place for a villain-less hero after all.

Silver still isn’t sure. He still keenly remembers how he felt when Peevils unmasked him. In the meantime, he decides, perhaps he can take his own advice.

~~~

Bing wakes up on the floor of Bop’s recording studio, and he’s only barely sat up when something slams into him from behind.

“Bing! Bing, you’re okay, you’re okay,” cries Bop, wrapping arms tight around Bing’s middle.

Bing stays still for a long moment, placing his hand over Bop’s, processing the situation as Bop joyfully rambles. He remembers confronting Peevils, remembers trying to lie about where Bop was and her seeing right through it, remembers their fight, remembers his fear, remembers his sunglasses getting knocked off his head, remembers the gun, the flash—

Apparently that’s all there is to remember, since Bing can’t recall anything further. Everything had happened so strangely, so quickly, and he’d been so single-minded, hadn’t he? Practically everything he’d done, he’d done for Bop. He’d coaxed him out of his panic attack, stayed by him, and at least tried to protect him, even if he’d failed. Bop is happy, now; laughing into Bing’s shoulders, amazed that his friend is alive. Amazed that he himself is alive. Bing realizes then that Bop must’ve died, too, and he really thinks about it. He really thinks about everything. He usually tries not to really think, because it only ever makes him upset. It feels better to think about something else, someone else, and stay in the moment with them. It feels better to think about Bop, and it works out, because Bop needs someone to be thinking about him, being such a fragile, nervous soul. Does focusing on Bop erase the feeling of fear for one’s own self? Of sadness for one’s own self? Not really, Bing realizes. But once he starts really thinking, he can’t stop, and the feelings that he pushed down for Bop come rushing back up.

He turns in Bop’s arms to face him, and the look on his face must speak volumes, because Bop’s laughter gets cut off by a gasp at the sight of it. Bing’s shades are still on the ground; he has nothing to hide behind now.

“Oh, Bing,” Bop murmurs, as sweet and gentle as ever, and that’s all it takes.

Bing grabs onto Bop and buries his face in his shoulder. Bing’s chest heaves with ragged, ugly sobs as his emotions overtake him. Bop holds him tight and whispers calming words, trying to soothe him.

“It’s okay, Bing, it’s okay,” Bop tells him, rubbing his back, “We’re safe now, don’t cry…”

Bing can’t answer for tears as he trembles in Bop’s arms; if anything, he only cries harder. He tries to draw comfort from Bop being there, from his arms around him and his voice in his ear, but there’s too much in his mind, too many awful feelings converging and swarming. He can’t find grounding. Before long, though, Bop seems to sense it, and decides to try something different.

“Hey, Bing,” he murmurs, “I know what to do. Just listen to my voice, alright?”

Bing manages to nod into Bop’s shoulder, and Bop smiles. He clears his throat.

He begins to sing.

_“They were sitting, they were sitting on the strawberry swing...Every moment was so precious…”_

Bing lets out a wet laugh, more out of surprise than anything else. He remembers that song, how could he not? He cries still, but Bop certainly has his attention now. He does so love Bop’s singing.

_“They were sitting, they were talking on the strawberry swing…Everybody was for fighting, wouldn’t wanna waste a thing…”_

Bop begins to rock in place as he sings, his movement mimicking the gentle ambling tone of the song. Bing finds himself moving his head across Bop’s shoulder into the crook of his neck, and he wonders if he shouldn’t, but now he can feel Bop’s jaw move as he smiles, so he decides it must be okay. He’s still crying, but his tears are beginning to run out of steam.

_“Cold, cold water, bring me ‘round, now my feet won’t touch the ground…”_

Bing sighs into Bop’s neck, and Bop giggles a little at the tickling breath, squeezing Bing tighter. Bing feels the sadness and fear inside him washing away with every note Bop sings.

_“Cold, cold water, what ya say?”_

It’s almost criminal, Bing thinks, how nice and just plain right it feels to be here; sitting on Bop’s lap, wrapped up in his arms, listening to his melodious voice weave into his ears.

_“When it’s such…”_

“…it’s such a perfect day,” Bing says, finishing the chorus just as Bop did before. They both pause as the song sinks in.

“Are you okay?” Bop asks, a note of concern in his voice.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Bing answers, lifting his head to look at Bop, “Thanks, man, that…yeah.” Bing can’t help but feel a little awkward, now that the song is over.

“Sure,” Bop says, offering a shy smile, “What are friends for?”

Bop says that a lot. So does Bing. They’ve both been saying that quite a bit, lately, and it’s now that Bing wonders why. What are they so afraid of? Bing knows what he’s afraid of, at least, now that he’s gone and let himself think about things. He can’t speak for Bop, doesn’t know if Bop’s words about them being friends are in earnest. But Bing is still in Bop’s lap, and their faces are so close together, and it would be so easy to just lean forward…

It happens like slow motion, or maybe Bing is just moving that slowly. He watches Bop’s face change as he gets closer, as Bop realizes what’s happening. But he doesn’t pull away or turn his head, and their lips meet like they were always meant to. The kiss is soft and short, and when Bing pulls away, Bop’s cheeks are red, his eyes are wide, and his mouth is a perfect circle.

“Oh,” he says.

Bing can’t help but laugh a little at his expression, and Bop can’t help but smile a little at Bing’s laugh.

“Don’t make fun of me, you goof,” Bop chides without any heat, leaning forward to let his forehead rest against Bing’s.

“I’m not, dude,” Bing assures him, cupping Bop’s face in his hands, feeling the warmth of Bop’s blush beneath his fingers.

When Bing kisses Bop again, he can feel Bop smile against his lips.

~~~

The Host wakes, sitting up in the chair he died in, and remembers his last words.

_“The Host pushes everything, all of his strength, all of his fortitude, into this: Peevils will not win. No matter what she does, she is doomed to fail. Someone or something will destroy her. She will not win. S-she will not win. She…she—”_

The Host hadn’t known, of course, what Peevils might’ve been planning. But even in those scant moments he’d known it must have been something. He’d known trying to stop her bullet would’ve been useless, so he’d done one better, even if it’d almost killed him before Peevils herself did. Really, though, he has no way of knowing whether his words truly had any effect, or if Peevils was defeated without his help. But the Host is alive, and thus, he knows his words were true in the end regardless.

He wonders how long it’s been, and what everyone else is doing. He wonders how far Peevils was able to go before being stopped. The fact that he’s still in his library and not in the clinic suggests that he wasn’t the only one she killed. Perhaps she even killed Dr. Iplier. The Host’s heart thrums at the thought, but he calms it quickly. After all, if Host is alive now, so is Dr. Iplier, even if Peevils did kill him. A similarly unproductive thought that Host can’t help but think is that he should’ve seen this coming. At the very least, he should have followed up more on his misgivings about Peevils, feelings he’d had from the beginning. He wasn’t the only one, but those who were willing to trust her outnumbered those who weren’t, and the Host had simply let it drop, finding it too difficult and thankless to push it. He shakes his head. He can’t let himself think about that any longer. It’s difficult for him to let things go, to rest wild thoughts or move on from a regretted decision. Perhaps it’s because he’s a writer, who hoards plot threads and characters like dragons hoard gold, even if he doesn’t have the power over them that he used to. Or perhaps it’s just him.

On that thought, Host stands and begins to walk towards the front of the library. He talks to himself on the way, trying to let his narration fill the gaps in his knowledge.

“The Host makes his way through the library, still wondering about what happened after he was killed. Unfortunately, he seems unable to glean any new information by narration alone.” Host frowns, annoyed. “The Host opts to leave the library and find someone else, so he can learn what happened. He knows that Darkiplier is likely to know a lot about the situation, since Peevils could not have killed him for long, even with Mark.” Host frowns deeper. “The Host does not have any wish to communicate with Dark unless it is absolutely necessary, and right now it is not. He will speak to someone else.” He perks up as he reaches the library’s doors and something new seeps into his words. “Footsteps can be heard coming towards the library. They sound as if the person is speed-walking and trying not to run, though they want to. They’re quite eager to reach the library; there is someone they are desperately seeking.” Though Host’s narration is choosing now to play the pronoun game, the Host thinks he knows who is coming.

Sure enough, the doors open, and Dr. Iplier is standing before him. The Host can tell by the quiet flap of his coat as it sways back with the doctor’s sudden stop, and the hitched gasp he makes. Host can’t see the look of shock on his face, but he knows it must be there.

“Host,” Dr. Iplier says, a little breathless.

“Doctor,” Host replies, arms turned palms-out at his sides, a silent invitation.

Dr. Iplier takes it, and in the next moment Host feels Dr. Iplier come up against him in a hug, and Host closes his own arms around him in turn. Host feels the air stir as Dr. Iplier moves his head, feels the slight puff of the doctor’s breath against his lips. It’s something he always does; a signal, a pause just long enough for Host to say “no” or turn away. He wouldn’t dream of doing that now, though, so Dr. Iplier kisses Host, and his lips feel like home. The kiss is sweet and gentle and full of longing, and after a moment Dr. Iplier kisses deeper, needier, and Host reciprocates without hesitation. He wonders, again, how long exactly he’s been dead.

Host feels more than hears the tiny sob that comes up at the back of Dr. Iplier’s throat. It forces him to pull away, but only for a moment to breathe back in before he kisses Host again. It happens again, though, this time the sob is a little louder, a little stronger, but Dr. Iplier keeps going back to kissing Host every time, even as the isolated sobs turn into true tears.

“It’s alright now, my dear,” Host whispers between Dr. Iplier’s feverish kisses, “We’re both alive, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s then that the dam bursts, and Dr. Iplier begins to weep, burying his face in Host’s neck and clinging to him, squeezing a handful of his coat in each trembling fist. Host holds him just as tight, one hand carding though his hair. He murmurs sweet nothings into the doctor’s ear between pressing kisses into his hair.

“Host, god, y-you don’t know h-how bad it got,” Dr. Iplier sobs.

“Doctor—” Host starts, but he’s quickly cut off.

“We almost l-lost _everything_ ,” Dr. Iplier goes on, “Peevils k-killed so many people, s-she almost killed Mark…”

“Do—” Host tries again, to no avail.

“Everyone was dying a-and I, I c-couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t—” Dr. Iplier takes a shuddering breath in. “I almost couldn’t save Mark, w-what kind of a fucking doctor a-am I—”

“Edward,” Host cuts in, voice firm but kind, “Calm.”

“I—” Dr. Iplier begins.

“Hush,” Host murmurs, “Be calm, my dear.”

The two remain clinging to each other for a while longer, Dr. Iplier using Host’s arms and soothing words as anchors, bringing him back from regret and guilt. Host waits to speak again until the doctor’s sobs have quieted and his trembling has subsided.

“Do you feel better, love?” Host asks.

“I…yes,” Dr. Iplier sighs into Host’s shoulder.

“I know you feel guilty,” Host says, “But there’s no need to. I gather from what you’ve said that Mark was injured and that you were able to heal him, is that true?” He pauses as he feels Dr. Iplier nod against him. “You _saved_ us, Edward. You saved _me_. You have nothing to feel bad about.”

“Ah, well, thank you,” Dr. Iplier stammers, a little embarrassed but smiling, before pulling away enough to look at Host’s face. Host chuckles.

“Of course, love,” He replies.

When Dr. Iplier speaks next, Host feels his breath on his lips.

“Isaac, I missed you,” he whispers, “I love you so much.”

“And I love you, Edward,” Host murmurs, closing the short distance between their lips with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> 1\. I know what Mark a while back said about no longer using the Cyndago egos in videos, but I came up with Amy's plan to make everyone forget Peevils last chapter anyway and I don't want to change it. I mean, we're already in an alternate universe where Peevils rose up and almost killed everyone, so I think this is acceptable.
> 
> 2\. Looking at the way I wrote this chapter and thinking back to the beginning it's...honestly kinda nuts how much the way I characterize some of the egos has changed. Guess that's what happens when a fic goes on for months lmao
> 
> 3\. "Otouto" (the name Wilf called Yan) means "little brother" in Japanese :>
> 
> 4\. I swear by every god imaginable that this fic. Will. Be finished. Idc if it takes me till 2019, there will be a fifteenth chapter. I'm suffering some serious fic fatigue, but I will not end this story prematurely. I know it seems like it could end right here, but trust me, it needs one more chapter to tie everything up. And that chapter! Will not! Be left! To the void!!! 
> 
> Pls trust me, I am a good noodle ;w;

**Author's Note:**

> If you're still here, thanks! Don't hesitate to leave comments; I'll do my best to respond! You could also send me an ask on Tumblr if you prefer. My url is juju-on-that-yeet.tumblr.com. I'm really excited to get more involved with the Markiplier community and actually start talking to people for once!


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